


Harry Potter and the Hogwarts Defence System

by DAZzle_10



Series: The 'Restoration' Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Friendship, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Grief/Mourning, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Pagan Festivals, Period-Typical Homophobia, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 77,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24568144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Harry has survived his first year at Hogwarts, a school created by his uncle one thousand years in the past. The Philosopher's Stone is safe, You-Know-Who is gone, most of his school year is more united than any cohort seen in centuries, and everyone is safe and happy - right?Unfortunately, the world doesn't seem to agree. His new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor is an absolute moron, his uncle is struggling with something that he refuses to talk to anyone about, tensions are rising at home, and nightmares about dragons just won't leave him alone - and he hasn't even got to Hogwarts yet.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley & Draco Malfoy, Dudley Dursley & Harry Potter, Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin, Harry Potter & Salazar Slytherin, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter, Salazar Slytherin & Quirinus Quirrell, Salazar Slytherin & Severus Snape, Salazar Slytherin/Cornelius Fudge
Series: The 'Restoration' Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680208
Comments: 328
Kudos: 671





	1. Chapter 1

The street is as alive as ever, potion fumes wafting silently over the buzzing crowd in clouds of faint green, blue, red and every colour in between, sometimes fizzing and sparking as they meet to create a largely harmless lights display over the heads of the uncaring shoppers beneath. Children, high on the freedom brought by the start of the Summer Holidays, run screaming and laughing, their hapless parents resigned to chasing them in a desperate attempt to reign them in until exasperation fades to proper frustration and out comes a wand, summoning the unfortunate child back to their parents by their robes to be scolded severely. This way and that, no matter where one turns, there is always something to buy, whether it be trunks with internal expansion charms, sweets in an assortment of unlikely – and often undesirable – flavours, or cages of owls, stacked atop one another and rattling with each movement of their hooting inhabitants.

Striding down the centre and ignoring the many who part for him on recognising the ring he wears, Salazar reflects ruefully that he could have picked a better day to deal with private affairs at Gringotts, but he needs to move as fast as he can, and it is hardly as though anyone can tell that he is here for something – or someone, he should say – special. Certainly, no one will be aware of the clothes currently folded neatly in the pouch that swings from his hip, and even if they were, it would be highly unlikely that anyone would succeed in guessing their purpose.

Indeed, Salazar rather imagines he would be laughed out of Diagon Alley before anyone would believe him telling them that the goblins of Gringotts are currently housing another human for him, but nevertheless, it is the truth – although not for much longer.

Gornuk is ready and waiting by the time he arrives, returning the shallow bow that Salazar offers and beckoning him past the long queues to a nondescript door then down a long passageway which starts to slope further and further as they go until Salazar gives up walking altogether, casts a quick charm on the soles of his boots, and lets himself slide the rest of the way down. Gornuk watches him, cackling under her breath, then tilts her head in amused acceptance when Salazar turns back to wait for her.

“I haven’t seen _that_ before, Lord Slytherin,” she tells him, “But I like it.”

“Never?” Salazar hums. “It took me a little while to think of it, I’ll admit – I suppose there aren’t many humans who come down here more than once.”

“Indeed,” she agrees, leading him down a similar – although far flatter – corridor and finally stopping at the end. “You’ll be taking him with you today?”

“I will,” Salazar confirms easily. “Discreetly.”

“Of course.”

Pleased, Salazar stands aside while she works through the safety mechanisms on the door, making sure not to appear as though he is paying _too_ close attention to her actions. It would not do for the goblins to accuse him of trying to learn their secrets; they are far too useful as allies for that, and Salazar has to admit that he has a soft spot for the race as a whole – and has done ever since they saved Godric, and by extension himself, from a particularly irritable dragon.

For a moment, his heart aches, but he pushes down the grief and straightens his spine, closing his eyes until they no longer burn. There is nothing to do but move on, and that is why he is here, visiting one Quirinus Quirrell for the second time since the goblins removed the tattered remains of Tom Riddle’s soul from his body, unfortunately failing to trap it and destroy it when they did so. He has spent a lot of time on this conundrum lately, searching for not only an explanation for Riddle’s survival on the night James died, but also a way to tie up the loose end that is Quirinus himself. Perhaps he has focused on such problems too single-mindedly, for he suspects that there is another task, distinct from these matters, that he has forgotten to complete, but that cannot be helped. With any luck, it will not turn out to have been something important.

“Lord Slytherin,” Gornuk interrupts his thoughts with a bow, gesturing to the now open door, and Salazar nods his thanks before stepping in, ignoring the way the door locks behind him.

“L – Lord Slytherin,” Quirinus stutters – more for lack of strength than for any real speech impediment, Salazar knows – and tries to scramble to his feet, failing rather drastically until Salazar reaches out to support him. “Thank you, my –”

“It’s Salazar,” Salazar reminds him calmly, already reaching into his pouch for the clothes he has brought and ignoring Quirinus’ nervous apology. “Here, put these on.”

Quirinus does as he is told, Salazar turning his eyes away without removing his arm as a support until an awkward stilling of movement in his peripheral vision tells him that the man is done. At some point, he will have to cure Quirinus of this apparent fear of him – which admittedly, he would not have helped during their meeting last week – but for now, his priority is to ensure Quirinus’ loyalty to him and his family.

“Drink this,” he tells Quirinus, holding out a vial of Pepper-Up Potion – just enough to keep the man on his feet until Salazar can be comfortable with leaving him in his new chambers within Potter Manor to rest.

When Quirinus seems steady enough on his feet to stand without assistance, Salazar steps away, tucking the now-empty vial back into his pouch, and draws himself up to his full height. Admittedly, he is far from of towering stature – those of Potter heritage rarely are – but it is the thought that counts.

“I, Salazar Slytherin, otherwise known as Salazar Linfred Potter, Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin and Lord of the Noble House of Potter, offer you, Quirinus Quirrell, a place in the Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin, that I might protect you in exchange for your loyalty. Do you accept?”

Quirinus draws in a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a second while Salazar waits patiently.

“I, Quirinus Quirrell,” the younger man starts after a small pause, opening his eyes and lifting them cautiously to meet Salazar’s gaze, “Accept my place in the Ancient and Noble House of Lord Slytherin, that you might protect me in exchange for my loyalty.”

For one brief moment, the room is illuminated by a green glow, Salazar biting down on his satisfied smile in favour of nodding and slipping a ring from his pouch to hand to Quirinus. As with Heirs, it is not exactly usual for members of a family to wear their House ring at all times, but for the role Salazar has in mind for his newest family member, he would rather like to be able to keep tabs on Quirinus and summon him if necessary to remove him from dangerous situations, should they arise.

“Come, Quirinus,” he tells the man, earning a hurried nod as he turns to the door. “We’ll be apparating straight to Potter Manor, which is where you’ll be staying until I can arrange something more suitable.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Quirinus mumbles; Salazar stops instantly, casting his eyes to the ceiling.

“It’s Salazar.”

Harry beams around at his cousin and their three closest friends, cheeks aching from the exertion of both the morning so far and the entirety of yesterday; Hermione, Draco and Neville have all stayed over for the night, to celebrate both Neville and Harry’s birthdays back to back in a ‘neutral’ territory. As the Grey household of the group, Harry and Dudley’s home has very quickly become the designated meet-up place when all five of them want to get together and, while Harry’s disappointed that he doesn’t get to see his friends’ homes, it’s certainly convenient like this.

“Alright!” Aunt Petunia claps her hands, standing from her typewriter. “Cake time, I think!”

Uncle Vernon is working at the moment, but both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Salazar are here to supervise and join in the celebrations; Harry almost pities them as he joins his friends in scrambling for the kitchen, but they don’t seem too bothered about it. Indeed, Harry’s fairly certain that Aunt Petunia is having to hold Uncle Salazar back from joining in.

“Can you believe we’re all twelve now?” Hermione beams when ‘Happy Birthday’ has been sung, the cake cut, and slices passed around.

“One year until we’re _proper_ teenagers,” Dudley adds, to faint laughter from the adults in the room.

_One year_ , Harry thinks silently, glancing up to meet Uncle Salazar’s sparkling eyes, _until I can become Professor Snape’s apprentice – and until I can take up the Potter Lordship._

It was only a few days ago that Uncle Salazar sat him down and explained the situation in full; his uncle has two lordships to juggle, and it’s getting more difficult by the day, even with the assistance of a proxy whose identity he won’t reveal. Uncle Salazar doesn’t want to hold the Potter Lordship for longer than he needs to, and he’s more than happy to pass it on to Harry as soon as he can, because as far as he’s concerned, Harry’s ready to take it on – with, of course, as much support as Harry needs or wants. He’s not about to just drop Harry in it, but he _does_ want it taken off his hands somewhat.

Honestly, Harry’s still reeling a little, caught between shock, pride, excitement and utter terror at the thought of Uncle Salazar emancipating him as soon as he’s old enough – as Head of House Potter, Uncle Salazar is entitled to declare him an adult from the age of thirteen onwards – so that he can take on the title of Lord Potter. He hasn’t even told his friends yet, though he _does_ intend to mention it to them, at some point. Hopefully, more quickly than it took him to tell them about the apprenticeship opportunity, because he _still_ hasn’t dared bring that up to anyone other than Hermione.

Glancing over at his cousin, Harry sighs. He should tell Dudley, at the very least – about both the lordship and the apprenticeship opportunity. It’s just… How does he explain to Dudley why he never mentioned the apprenticeship before, without bringing the tension back or creating an entirely new rift? Never mind how worried he is about Dudley’s reaction to finding out that Harry is set to become a Lord in a year’s time. It will probably be awkward at the very least, and at the very worst, Dudley could be jealous or even angry.

Or maybe, Harry should stop expecting the worst of his cousin and hope to be proven wrong.

For several more seconds, he sits and stares, weighing up the possibility, until Dudley glances up to meet his gaze and frowns in silent question. Then, shaking himself, Harry offers a reassuring smile and looks away, trying to pretend that he hasn’t been watching his cousin and resolving to make sure to tell Dudley about both the lordship and the apprenticeship at some point over the summer.

Still, maybe if he told Hermione first? Or Neville, who’d stand a good chance of understanding – or Draco, even.

He can think about it more later, though. For now, his friends are here, along with all his family aside from Uncle Vernon – who’s planning to get home earlier than usual, too – and he’d really like to make the most of it.

The day progresses nicely – a straight continuation of Neville’s birthday celebrations, really, in terms of the atmosphere – and Harry almost can’t believe how lucky he is. His family is amazing, his friends are too, and he couldn’t hope for a better day. ( _Not to mention_ , the pessimistic part of his mind whispers, _you’re still alive –_ very _lucky._ Harry does his level best to ignore it.)

Right on time, Uncle Vernon arrives home, grunting in surprise when Harry – who decided at the start of the holiday that he was done with being irritated with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia if Dudley was done being distant with Uncle Salazar – and Dudley barrel straight into him before chuckling and ruffling their hair, leaning over the top of them both to kiss Aunt Petunia. Dudley pulls a face, tugging Harry away to safety, only to catch sight of Uncle Salazar watching them from the doorway of the kitchen and smirking, clearly having caught their reactions to the display of affection.

“One day, boys…” he sing-songs quietly, a knowing glint in his eye that Harry decides _not_ to try and decipher, because he suspects he wouldn’t like it if he did.

“What if we don’t like anyone?” he retorts under his breath as he passes his uncle, taking care to keep Dudley from overhearing.

“It’s a possibility,” Uncle Salazar allows, equally quiet. “But knowing you two… unlikely, I think. And I’m normally quite good at this.”

At that, Harry allows himself a disbelieving huff.

“Of _course_ you are,” he mocks, his best attempt at patronisation dripping from every word, and Uncle Salazar’s eyebrows lift in amused delight before the man starts laughing.

“Not that I’d be upset if you didn’t like anyone,” he tells Harry when he’s calmed. “Understand? It’s fine. I’m just taking my chances that my predictions are correct.”

“I know,” Harry assures him hurriedly, deciding that he doesn’t really want to talk about this kind of stuff any longer; he’s only twelve – not eleven, _twelve_ – and he doesn’t plan on paying attention to any of this for a while yet. “Come on. We can have more food now Uncle Vernon’s back, right?”

Uncle Salazar sighs, a falsely put-upon frown taking over.

“I _suppose_ that’s what we agreed…”

Harry takes off past him without another word – too quickly to catch the glare shot in Uncle Salazar’s direction by Uncle Vernon, or the cold stare Uncle Vernon receives in return.

“If you corrupt _my_ nephew…” Vernon warns, Salazar’s lips twisting in a sneer.

“Don’t think you can threaten me, Vernon,” he replies softly, pressing his lips in a polite smile to Petunia as she passes them both with a wary frown before returning to his previous disdainful expression. “What are you going to do to me, hmm?”

Vernon scowls, seemingly defeated, but after a moment, his eyes light with a gleeful spark.

“I know things,” he returns, as quiet as Salazar. “Petunia and I – we’ve kept your secrets, _Slytherin_. Who’s to say we don’t go straight to your magical newspaper – The Prophet, I think it was – if you step out of line?”

Salazar’s lips flatten into a thin, tight line, his face shutting off into blank ice. If the threat worries him, not an inkling of it shows.

“Nothing a few memory charms won’t fix.”

Snorting, Vernon shakes his head and takes a step closer, a smirk of his own emerging when Salazar backs up against the doorframe.

“But then what are you going to tell Harry and Dudley? You’ll have to explain to them what you’ve done – see what they think of you after that.”

Salazar’s jaw works furiously, and he seems on the verge of retorting when a young girl pokes her head around the other entrance to the kitchen, eyes widening when she spots them.

“Er…” Hermione manages, cheeks reddening, and slips instantly out of view.

“Excuse me, Vernon,” Salazar bites out. “There are children around, and I’m sure you’d rather they didn’t hear our conversation – or perhaps make their own… _theories_ about our current position.”

It’s something of a stretch, but Vernon backs off at once, face purpling as Salazar slips away from him to hurry after the boys’ friend. His scowl remains long after the younger man has disappeared from view and, behind it, the thought cycles through his mind that something will have to be done; the sooner they can get rid of Salazar, the better.

“Aw, come _on_ , Haz…” Dudley groans, shaking his head, and Harry rolls his eyes but nods in acquiescence.

The agreement earns him a cheer from his friends and cousin, though he can’t help but notice that Hermione seems a little less enthusiastic, gaze darting towards where Uncle Salazar leans against the frame of the open backdoor to watch them all with a faint smile. Resolving to ask her what’s wrong before she leaves, Harry backs away from the long tarpaulin stretched across the lawn, takes a deep breath, and charges, leaping at the last minute to land on his stomach, slide down the length of the soapy plastic and jolt to a halt when he hits the soaking grass at the end.

“All the way!” Dudley whoops, grinning. “Neville, you’re next.”

“Me?” Neville jumps. “But… I don’t know how…”

“Go slower if you want,” Harry offers, wringing the soapy water from the front of his shirt. “You won’t get as far, but it’s a good way to start; you’ve got plenty of time to build up. You’ve got to commit, though. Just be careful to avoid getting soap in your eyes and mouth.”

“What’s this called again?” Draco asks warily from where he’s perched himself on the arm of a patio chair at a safe distance, though Harry’s spotted him eyeing the contraption with no small amount of longing.

“Slip ‘n slide,” Hermione tells him, grinning. “I’ll go if you want, Neville – but you’ve got to go after that. Deal?”

Neville hesitates.

“Come on, Nev!” Harry grins, patting his shoulder gently. “It _is_ good fun, I promise – you’ve just got to get started.”

“Alright,” Neville sighs, though he’s smiling as he says it. “Hermione goes, then I’ll go.”

“Yes!” Dudley cheers, so loud and exuberant that it makes Draco jump and almost fall off the chair; for a heart-stopping moment, Harry thinks he’s really going to fall, but then Uncle Salazar’s hand flashes out, catching him in place until he regains his balance. “Merlin – you alright, Draco?”

“Fine,” Draco assures distractedly, staring at Uncle Salazar’s hand in silence, where it still hovers in the air a good five metres away from Draco’s position. “Was that… wandless….?”

Harry’s breath catches.

“No,” Uncle Salazar laughs, shrugging as though it’s a confession and drawing his other hand out from his robes to show Draco the wand it holds, and Harry relaxes. “Just a little trick I like to do.”

“Oh,” Draco mutters, swallowing, then hops gingerly off the chair. “I’d like a go after Neville, if no one minds.”

Dudley’s cheer is even louder but, luckily, there’s no one balancing on something to fall this time. Neville, however, barely seems to notice, his gaze still fixed on Uncle Salazar, and it occurs faintly to Harry that not only is Uncle Salazar holding a wand that looks nothing like the one Harry’s used to him using, but that it’s in the wrong hand. Neville wouldn’t know that, though – would he?

Shaking himself, he turns back to where Hermione has lined herself up, allowing himself to join in Dudley’s cheering and grinning when Neville’s own attention is drawn back to the slip ‘n slide to take up the shouts of encouragement as well. Hermione gets a respectable way down the tarpaulin, almost to Dudley’s mark but not quite, and Harry grins with satisfaction as he watches Dudley tense; call him competitive, but Harry quite likes being unbeatable as sliding distance goes.

“Well done, ‘Mione!” he calls, clapping as obnoxiously as he can to annoy Dudley. “Beat Dudley next time, will you?”

She laughs, breathless, and peels her damp hair from her face as she nods.

“Neville, you’re up!” she declares. “Remember, keep your head up so it doesn’t get on your face too much.”

“Got it,” Neville nods, turning to line himself up and sucking in a deep breath, clearly bracing himself.

“Go on, Nev!” Dudley cheers, whooping and hollering for Neville’s entire slide – shorter than the rest of them, but still respectable. “Good going! Draco…”

The grin that Dudley turns on Draco is nigh on evil, the blond huffing and rolling his eyes dramatically as he shrugs off his outer robes and adjusts his clothing, setting his wand aside then crinkling his nose at the tarpaulin.

“Don’t worry, it’ll only leave your clothing wrinkled for the rest of the day!” Dudley tells him happily, unbothered by the glare that comment gets him.

“Go stuff yourself, Dursley,” Draco sniffs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips and a determined glint in his eye as he turns to the tarpaulin.

Harry makes his decision in a flash.

“Dudley!” he calls. “Five pounds of pocket money says Draco beats your distance.”

“You’re on!” Dudley returns instantly. “He won’t get _close_!”

Draco’s eyes narrow, and Harry bites back on his satisfied laughter as best he can, watching Draco step back, test the grass beneath his feet, and then launch himself forwards, across the lawn to dive onto the tarpaulin and skid his way down it, further and further and…

“ _Yes_!” Harry screams, delighted, and pumps the air with one fist, Draco drifting to a stop just short of the end. “ _Yes_ , Draco! Hah! Dud – you owe me…”

“I know, I know…” Dudley groans, but he pats Draco happily on the back as he stands for a second go of his own. “You might be unbeatable, Haz, but you’re not unmatchable…”

By the time they finish, the sun has almost finished setting, Uncle Salazar having set up a string of multicoloured, glowing orbs to light their fun once it got a little harder to see before settling down to talk in quiet tones with Lady Malfoy, who arrived a good hour ago. She seems a little bemused by the slip ‘n slide, but smiles indulgently in response to Draco’s delight when he finally gets down the whole length. Not long after they’ve all traipsed inside to get changed, Lady Longbottom arrives, and tension rises between her and Lady Malfoy, both Neville and Draco shifting awkwardly as Harry shares a glance with Dudley and Hermione.

Fortunately, Uncle Salazar’s well-placed enquiry into their thoughts on a new Defence teacher breaks the ice well enough, and next to Harry, Neville breathes an audible sigh of relief, his chest rising and falling with the action. Not long after, Mr and Mrs Granger – “Emma, and this is my husband, Paul – lovely to meet you…” – appear and, for a moment, it looks as though Lady Malfoy is about to get stiff again, but then Aunt Petunia appears with an offer of drinks, and she seems to remember that muggles have been hosting her for the last hour and a half.

Finally, it’s time to say goodbye; Harry hugs each of his friends, promising to see them again before the end of summer – to go shopping for school supplies, seems to be the general consensus – and waves them out of the door at Dudley’s side, watching Lady Malfoy take Draco’s hand and disappear with a crack, Lady Longbottom doing much the same with Neville, before Paul, Emma and Hermione slip into their car and start the engine to drive off.

It’s only as Hermione’s disappearing out of sight that Harry realises that he forgot to ask her why she was frowning at Uncle Salazar earlier. Never mind that, then.

“Alright, Harry?” Uncle Vernon asks him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and smiling down at him, and for one horrible moment, as he realises that Dudley has already disappeared back inside, Harry thinks he’s about to say something he’d regret, but he manages to bite down on it, offering only a smile and a nod. “Good, good. Do you want to come along to the clubhouse tomorrow with me and Dudley?”

Perking up at the thought, Harry feels some of his worries slide away.

“Can I?” he pleads, to a chuckle from his uncle.

“Would I be asking if you couldn’t?”

Huffing, Harry shrugs and follows him inside, ignoring the way Uncle Vernon glares at Uncle Salazar – until he realises that Uncle Salazar hasn’t glared back, only turned away with a troubled twist to his lips. Something, clearly, has happened, and Harry’s not sure he wants to know what.

(Only he really, desperately does.)

Smoke rises; the wooden structure crumbles; a figure comes running out, followed by a dog which yelps and whimpers, fur alight with embers which are finally subdued when it manages to roll over and smother them; dust glows orange as it fills the air, and Harry feels realisation flood through him in one terrible jolt.

“ _Dragon_ ,” he whispers, even as the creature’s terrible head swings in their direction, and he wants to move, wants to lunge for Professor Snape, who stands before him, and throw them both to the ground – or failing that, at least drop _himself_ and hope that his professor manages the same – but his limbs are frozen, and he can only watch in horror as those merciless flames burst forth, overcoming Professor Snape in seconds.

Harry can smell the burnt flesh, can see the way it curls and shrivels on the bone as Professor Snape’s scream is torn from him by the vicious fire – and then the man is crumbling just as the hut had, and the fire burns onwards, streaking towards Harry to rip its way through him, his own cry stolen as the flames fill his lungs when he tries to inhale, and –

He bolts upright, drenched in sweat and panting desperately for breath, his own scream still ringing in his ears as he clutches at his throat, trying to expel the fire trapped inside his chest, but nothing comes out; there’s nothing _to_ come out, but that doesn’t explain why his lungs are burning like this. Tumbling from the bed, he falls to his hands and knees on the carpet to wretch helplessly, tears stinging his eyes as his ears ring, a wailing siren set against the rapid-fire pounding of his heart.

“Harry?”

A warm hand settles on his back, rubbing in gentle comfort.

“Harry, it’s alright. It’s okay. Try to take deep breaths for me…”

_Uncle Salazar_.

Harry tries to suck in a deep lungful of air, but it all comes stuttering back out in a sob, Uncle Salazar guiding him gently in for a secure embrace as the tears burst forth to scald his cheeks.

“Nightmare?” his uncle asks softly as he tries to get a handle on his crying, and for several seconds Harry can only nod, chest heaving and aching as he fights for a chance to breathe, never mind speak.

“Dragon,” he manages to rasp finally, feeling Uncle Salazar squeeze him a little tighter. “I – I thought I was – I thought I was g – going to –”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, he thinks, because Uncle Salazar seems to know what he means already.

“Oh, _Harry_ …”

Lips press softly to the top of his head, Uncle Salazar’s hand rubbing up and down his arm in long, soothing strokes as, gradually, Harry feels himself start to regain control.

“You’re safe,” Uncle Salazar murmurs. “You’re alive.”

“Only just,” Harry hears himself whisper. “If I – I – When the dragon appeared, I jumped for P – Professor Snape, so we both – we both got below the dragon-fire. If I’d been a – a second later, we – I mean –”

His breath hitches again, and he bites his lip to stifle it quickly.

“Come on,” Uncle Salazar tells him, soft but firm. “Downstairs, hmm? We’ll make some hot chocolate, and we’ll find something else to do.”

Nodding gratefully, Harry staggers to his feet and lets Uncle Salazar reach out to grab his blanket and drape it gently over his shoulders before leading him down the stairs. Cautiously, one of his hands lifts to grip the blanket and hold it in place, the other searching for his uncle’s hand and finding it after a few seconds. Uncle Salazar laces their fingers together and squeezes in silent comfort.

Soon enough, they’re sat on the couch together, hot chocolates cradled close to their chests with more blankets draped over their laps; the night is warm, but Harry’s feeling fairly cold at the moment, and if the hairs standing up on Uncle Salazar’s arms are anything to go by, he’s not the only one.

“Could you… tell me a story?” he asks quietly. “About Godric – a true one?”

Uncle Salazar hesitates, glancing cautiously around, and Harry finds himself copying the action, relaxing when he realises that there’s no one else present to overhear. To his surprise, however, Uncle Salazar doesn’t seem happy to leave it at that, reaching for his wand to cast a quiet ‘ _homenum revelio_ ’ and only opening his mouth to speak when it apparently comes back clear.

“Have I ever told you about why I like goblins so much?” he begins then, lips curling up in the faintest shadow of a smile when Harry shakes his head. “Godric and I were on what he liked to call an ‘expedition’. I called them his mad escapades, but I went along for… him, really. There was just something about him when he found something new, or when he realised that he was about to hit a dangerous spot that he felt confident he could handle – he’d come alive, sometimes over the most innocuous moments, and I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

Harry listens in silence, watching Uncle Salazar’s eyes lose their focus as the man sinks into his memories, and realises for the first time that his uncle is still fully dressed in yesterday’s robes, looking suspiciously like he’d been crying before he came to help Harry. Was it a bad idea to ask him about Godric when he’s clearly not doing too well himself?

“One time, however, we came across a dragon of our own,” Uncle Salazar continues, oblivious to Harry’s internal questions. “Godric saw this sword – a sword he swore up and down would be perfect for him. I was reluctant, because I didn’t think it was a good idea to take from this dragon’s hoard, but… he got that look. He went in, got hold of the sword, started to back away… and the sword dragged its way right down the dragon’s hind leg – nothing that would hurt it, but right where it turned out to be _very_ ticklish. It awoke, saw Godric, and was… unimpressed. Of course, we ran.”

Snorting, Uncle Salazar shakes his head.

“Godric kept the sword, idiot that he is – was –” his voice cracks for a second, his lips twisting, and Harry’s heart aches, “– and he kept insisting that we would get away from this dragon, which we clearly weren’t about to – it was determined to catch Godric, but couldn’t have cared less about me – until some goblin poked his head out of a nearby cave and ushered us in, where the dragon would never find us. We spent the next few nights there, hiding from the dragon and working to repay them. It turned out that the sword was goblin-made, but… goblins were closer to humans, then. They were happy enough to let us keep it.”

Something about the story rings a bell in Harry’s mind, his brow creasing involuntarily as he racks his brain to work out what it could possibly be.

“The Hogwarts motto…” he ventures carefully, and Uncle Salazar nods, a soft, slightly damp laugh escaping.

“I persuaded Rowena and Helena to agree to it when the school was finished – just to remind Godric to be less of an idiot in future. He spent a week pretending to be offended, but…” Uncle Salazar shrugs, glancing away. “That was a few years into my time with them. We were… young, stupid, new to what _we_ had – but happy. Very happy.”

Uncle Salazar twists, fixing Harry with a stern look, the effect only ruined by him choosing that moment to take a sip of his hot chocolate.

“Whatever you do in life,” he starts, voice filled with soft conviction, “Make it something that makes you happy, Harry. Whomever you choose to spend your life with, in whatever way that may be – choose people whom you will be happy with. Not people who you think _should_ make you happy, not things that you think you’re meant to enjoy – just what really makes you happy. Understand?”

Silent, Harry nods.

“Good.”

Eventually, Harry settles into Uncle Salazar’s side, nestling under the arm that falls over his shoulders and closing his eyes. As he starts to drift off, he’s faintly aware of his empty mug being removed from his hands, then the blankets covering him are adjusted, and the steady rise and fall of Uncle Salazar’s ribcage lulls him into sleep.

Unfortunately, he’s woken far too soon by hushed, angry voices and rough jostling, the world blurring slowly into focus as he blinks in an effort to clear his vision and fights the urge to look up, deciding that it’s best not to give away the fact that he’s awake.

“ _I tell you not to corrupt him and_ this _is what you do_?” are the first words to filter through, Harry recognising the voice as Uncle Vernon’s. “ _Get away from him_!”

“ _Vernon, you’re going to wake him_ ,” Uncle Salazar whispers in reply, the world sharpening as the warmth that Harry’s resting on shifts again. “Just let me get up on my own and I –”

A dull thud meets Harry ears, accompanied by a small groan of pain as the comfortable warmth disappears, leaving Harry to drop to the cushions of the couch, the heat they hold already fading; through the slits in his eyes, Harry catches sight of Uncle Salazar on the carpet, Uncle Vernon looming over him.

“I promise you, Vernon,” Uncle Salazar soothes, palms raised, “I haven’t broached that subject with him _once_. He just had a nightmare, I took him downstairs to get some hot chocolate, and he fell asleep. I’m not _corrupting_ him – not that it _would_ be –”

“You just remember what I told you last week, _Slytherin_ ,” Uncle Vernon warns, cutting him off. “If you don’t toe the line, I’m sure The Prophet will be interested in your little _double identity_ , so you watch your step around the boys, you understand? I won’t have them picking up your nasty habits.”

The best thing to do, Harry decides, is to stay very still and very quiet, and pretend to be asleep.

“Now, I was thinking a little about that threat, Vernon,” Uncle Salazar begins pleasantly, in the kind of tone that Harry has come to associate with ‘I-am-one-word-from-slitting-your-throat’ over the last year, “And it occurred to me – I may not be able to alter your memories without upsetting Harry or Dudley, but anyone who hears of your connection with Lord Slytherin is going to come after you. And they’ll come after Petunia, which neither of us want. And they’ll come after Harry and Dudley, which I’m fairly certain is the _last_ thing either of us wants. So your little threat of revealing my identity is about as empty as the memory charms I mentioned last year.”

It doesn’t take much for Harry to decide that now is _not_ the time to start unravelling all of this information; it will be much better tucked away for the time being, to be examined at another time.

“Are you _threatening_ me?” Uncle Vernon growls.

“Threatening you?” Uncle Salazar snorts. “Merlin, no. Merely warning you – and making it clear that you have _nothing_ over me, besides that I do not wish to worry the boys with such a rift.”

For a moment, silence falls, and Harry holds his breath.

“Don’t breathe a word to them,” Uncle Vernon bites out finally, Harry catching the faintest glimpse of him storming from the room, then Uncle Salazar pushes himself slowly up from the floor, dusts himself off, and adjusted the blankets over Harry, fumbling a little as he does so.

Another second, Uncle Salazar hovers in silence, then he, too, disappears to leave Harry alone with his thoughts. Clearly, the tension between Uncle Salazar and Uncle Vernon is only growing, and Harry isn’t too keen to consider the referenced threats closely at the moment; he can address how he feels about the memory charms and the use of The Prophet another time, preferably when he isn’t so _tired_. For now, though, Harry needs to lock down his growing anger on the subject, because unless he admits to listening to the conversation, there’s no way he’d be able to explain giving Uncle Vernon such an obvious cold shoulder.

Best, he decides, to just let it lie for the time being, until he can get all his thoughts about it in order, maybe talk to his friends to see what they think, and work out if there’s anything he can actually _do_ about it – like, perhaps, telling Dudley the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning.
> 
> Black Lives Matter. Black Trans Lives Matter. JK Rowling is transphobic. We did already know all of this - or we should have, certainly - but I just want to make it clearly that if anyone wants to have a discussion about these matters, the comments section is down below. While I have no right to lead the discourse on the BLM movement, it is my responsibility to spread awareness and information, encourage others to join me in self-examination and becoming anti-racist, and use my privilege to change this appalling situation for good. 
> 
> On a lighter note, if you have any thoughts on this chapter or (back to a less savoury but still important tone) on why the Cats 2019 film is a clear demonstration of the heteronormativity in our current society, I'd love to hear from you as well.
> 
> In summary: if you want to talk human rights, Cats or this fic, you know where to go.

Lucius Malfoy shifts in discomfort, the movement unnoticeable to anyone who might be watching, and glances around to take in the crowd faster than most eyes could hope to follow. Over the years, he has become something of a master when it comes to moving stealthily, without drawing attention or even tripping the senses of any observers who might be paying particularly close attention. It has served him well in many a difficult situation.

The situation he finds himself in _now_ , however, will require a whole new level of stealth, and a strength of will to match. Lucius prides himself in not bending easily to others, but in knowing when the time is right to do so, however distasteful he might find it. The Dark Lord was one such example; Salazar Potter, the recently returned younger Potter twin, with an undisguised grudge against him for his role in the death of James Potter and far more leverage over him than Lucius would normally allow even his wife, is very much another. There is power in that man, Lucius knows, and a vindictive streak to match, though it seems well-hidden from the majority of observers. Then again, the majority of observers don’t watch Salazar Potter with the suspicion that somehow, in his fourteen-year-long absence, he has managed to take on the Slytherin Lordship, thought long-since destroyed.

Of course, Salazar has never _said_ so much to Lucius, but he hasn’t tried particularly hard to hide it, even dropping outright hints at points. Lucius almost wishes he could have been so subtle with his threat to murder Lucius in his sleep or, at the very least, send him packing for a lifetime in Azkaban, unless Lucius cooperated – and there is little doubt in Lucius’ mind that it can be done, if Salazar puts his mind to it. Somehow, there are things he knows that Lucius has never even dared tell Narcissa.

Now, shifting again as a bead of sweat slides down his back – the sun is almost unbearably bright and, even in the shade of a storefront, Diagon Alley seems like a sizzling cauldron, its potion a heady swirl of the shoppers bustling up and down the street – Lucius is all too aware of the small, black book in his pocket, one piece of leverage too many for Lucius to allow one man to have. He knows he will not rest easy until the book is gone, out of his home and his possession where, if Salazar ever manages to find it – _highly_ unlikely – it cannot be connected to Lucius himself.

All he has to do is slip it to someone else, and a flash of that familiar red hair – sickening in its quantity – has given him the perfect idea.

“But _Mum_ , I need –”

“Thomas, come back here this –”

“– honestly don’t understand what –”

“– Thomas, I’m _warning_ you, young man!”

“Ah, Arthur, so good to –”

“– have absolutely _no_ need for that, Milly, none what –”

Groaning, Harry scrubs at his eyes and stumbles after Uncle Salazar, trying to ignore the headache growing at the front of his skull, some kind of pressure seeming to strain against the bone even as the clamour of Diagon Alley pushes right back. It’s too hot and far too loud, seeming much more packed than normal, and worst of all, the nightmare seems concentrated around Flourish and Blotts – right where they’re headed next.

“This is insane!” Dudley shouts to him over the din. “I’ve never seen it like this before!”

Harry shakes his head in miserable agreement. The plan had been to meet up with Neville, Hermione and Draco, get their shopping done and sit around at Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour for a little while before heading home, but amid the crowds of shoppers – comprised mainly of middle-aged women and little girls, for some strange reason – Harry doesn’t see how they’d even stand a chance of spotting their friends.

“We’ll get in and out as soon as possible, alright?” Uncle Salazar twists to assure them, smile sympathetic, then twitches his fingers ever so slightly, the noise seeming to muffle itself a little with the movement; Harry breathes a sigh of relief and manages a weak smile of gratitude. “I’ll admit, I meant to do that earlier, but rather forgot…”

_Probably_ , Harry thinks, rolling his eyes fondly at his uncle’s back when the man turns to continue onwards, _around the time he got distracted by the snakes on display._ Admittedly, it had been a good laugh, both Harry and Uncle Salazar listening to the hilariously dry comments they were hearing from the snakes and translating them for Dudley to enjoy as well. They’d had more than a few strange looks from passers-by who clearly had no idea what was so funny, but Harry hadn’t really found himself caring.

“I don’t even see why we need these books,” Dudley mutters as they finally near the bookshop. “They’re all rubbish anyway. Lockhart’s a total moron from what I’ve seen of him – I’d be surprised if he even _did_ half of this.”

Harry has to nod his agreement at that. From what he’s seen of Gilderoy Lockhart in The Prophet lately – what with his autobiography coming out some time around now – the man seems like an utter buffoon. Hopefully, their new professor won’t be _quite_ so idiotic, but really, Harry suspects that they’ll be teaching themselves Defence Against the Dark Arts in their study group this year. Thank Merlin for Uncle Salazar teaching him so much defensive magic over the holidays.

A few more steps and, to Harry’s horror, the reason for the crowd becomes nauseatingly clear. Posters of Lockhart wink down at him from all angles, plastered across the front of the shop, and the man’s smile – _urgh, hideous_ – threatens to blind him as he fights to tear his gaze away.

“Dear Merlin,” Uncle Salazar mutters ahead of them, shaking his head. “Harry, Dudley… We might be better coming back another day –”

“Wait, there’s Draco!” Dudley bursts out, pointing, and Harry follows his finger to where the blond does indeed stand with his father, in the process of twisting at the sound of his name to spot them as well and beckon them over. “Can we go and see him, at least?”

Uncle Salazar hesitates, clearly a little wary of the thronging crowd, but nods and lets them lead the way over, following at a more sedate pace. Harry copies Dudley in bounding his way eagerly over, tugging Draco into a hug as soon as Dudley has finished squeezing the life out of their friend, and after a split second of hesitation, he’s pleased to feel Draco relax into the contact and return it just as happily.

“Would you like to join us?” the blond asks on drawing back. “Most of these people are here to see Lockhart himself, so if you’re only here for the books –” Draco’s expression suggests that anything else would result in immediate estrangement, “– then you won’t _really_ be cutting in front of them.”

Harry considers it, glancing up at Uncle Salazar, but the man is already deep in conversation with a slightly-stiffer-than-normal Lord Malfoy, so he supposes that they’ll be staying here anyway. Sharing a glance with Dudley, he offers a shrug and gets the same back. _That settles it, then._

Gradually, the line shuffles forward, Harry almost crying in relief when they hit the shade and then sucking in a desperate gasp of air, somewhat like a dying man, when they get into the magically cooled shop itself, only to realise, with a sinking heart, that the only way that they’ll be able to get the books they need is by joining the crowd that is slowly gathering around a small platform – presumably, a makeshift stage. Lord Malfoy looks around, seems to realise the same thing, and mumbles a soft curse before ushering them all to the very edge of the crowd where, although they’re close to the stage itself, the view is bad enough that the crowd is much thinner, giving them a good amount of space. Once the morning’s shopping has been settled carefully at their feet, Harry twists to watch the rest of the line trundling gradually in, only to find himself with a face-full of familiarly bushy brown hair, Hermione’s arms wrapping tightly around him.

“Harry, I’m _so_ glad to see! Where’s – oh! Dudley, Draco, you’re here as well – I mean, I knew Dudley would be here, and it’s great to see you, Dudley, but Draco, I –”

“’Mione,” Harry interrupts gently, grinning. “Breathe.”

She flushes, shoving him lightly, but calms as she greets Dudley and Draco with warm hugs as well.

“Now we’re just missing Nev,” Harry sighs, glancing around with a faint amount of hope, but the fifth of their group is nowhere to be seen.

“Well, he’d better hurry up,” Hermione declares with an anxious frown, “Or he’ll miss Gilderoy Lockhart – I’ve been reading all about him this summer, and he just seems absolutely wonderful, don’t you think? Imagine being so young and already having done so much – it just sounds too good to be true.”

“That’s because it is,” Draco offers, dryly amused. “If you read through his actual books, there are far too many inconsistencies. He’ll be in one place one week, and then the next week, he’ll already have been staying in a different country for the last month.”

Hermione blinks, face falling, and for a moment, she looks so dejected that Harry wishes Draco hadn’t told her.

“Oh,” she mutters, downcast. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, patting her back gently; he hadn’t known about the inconsistencies, but it certainly doesn’t surprise him. “Sorry, ‘Mione. He’s a good writer, I’ll give him that – and a lot of people either don’t see the problems or just choose to ignore them.”

For a moment, Hermione remains deflated, but then she lifts her chin and shrugs, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“Well, he’s still good-looking,” she announces, laughing when Harry fails to hold back his despairing groan.

Luckily, before he can dwell for too long on _that_ , a commotion starts up on stage, Harry twisting around just in time to see Lockhart himself emerge from behind a set of curtains to wave and smile at his enraptured audience. On second thoughts, he’d like to go back to discussing what Hermione thinks of various people’s looks, thank you very much.

As the man looks around, he fights the urge to retch at the sight of such a simpering smile, sharing a glance with Dudley and pulling a face then freezing when he turns back to find Lockhart staring directly at him.

“It _can’t_ be,” he hears the man whisper, apparently ignoring the photographer from The Daily Prophet. “ _Harry Potter_ …?”

_Oh, please, no…_

“Harry Potter?” the photographer exclaims. “Out of my way! Potter –”

The man reaches out towards Harry, clearly intending to drag him up towards Lockhart even as Harry takes a step back and shakes his head, but then, suddenly, Uncle Salazar’s hand is around the photographer’s wrist, catching it before it can make contact with Harry.

“Please do refrain from touching my nephew without his permission,” his uncle tells the man coldly. “He’s a twelve-year-old boy, not a prop for you to drag around however you please.”

“Oh, come, my dear sir,” Lockhart wheedles. “He means no harm. I’m sure Harry would love to join me on stage, isn’t that right?”

He throws one of his signature smiles, and Harry hears several people in the crowd coo adoringly.

“Harry,” Uncle Salazar starts gently, turning to him without releasing the photographer, “Would you like to go up there?”

Harry takes one look at the gaze his uncle has fixed on him and, comforted by the silent reassurance he receives that Uncle Salazar will listen to whatever he says and ensure that everyone else does the same, shakes his head.

“Er…” Lockhart flounders for a moment. “Well, I certainly understand that – we can’t all be prepared for the spotlight _all_ the time. Wrong clothes, wrong hairstyle, what have you – but I’ll give you a tip: _always_ dress to be in the spotlight, hmm? And that goes for all of you here!”

Harry presses his lips in the curtest of acknowledgements and breathes a sigh of relief when the attention moves swiftly away, Uncle Salazar releasing the photographer to send him on his way and ignoring the scowl he receives in return. Unfortunately, that relief comes crashing down in a matter of minutes with the announcement that Lockhart will, in fact, be their new Defence teacher.

_Dear Merlin, no…_

“Looks like we’ll be teaching ourselves, then,” Neville sighs from behind them, Harry spinning to greet him happily.

“Now, _there’s_ a sight for sore eyes…”

“Miss me?” Neville beams, accepting the hug that Harry launches his way.

“Why would you think that?” Harry teases as the rest of his friends take their turns in greeting Neville. “Come on, let’s get these books then get to Fortescue’s.”

The rest of the summer passes quietly, for the most part. Harry completed the work set by his teachers right at the start alongside Dudley, but with some encouragement from Aunt Petunia, they’ve been going back over their weaker areas from their first year, just to keep up the habit of studying and put them in a good place to build on those foundations next year. Every few days, he spends the morning with Uncle Salazar to practice his self-defence and learn new spells, his uncle having taken to grilling him on his political knowledge and decision-making at the same time. Harry has to admit that the technique is fairly effective, because by the middle of August, not only can he perform a stunning or disarming charm without much concentration, but can come up with multiple solutions for various problems of low significance within a few minutes of being presented with the issue.

Of course, there’s one thing that was never going to be so quiet, and that’s telling Dudley about the apprenticeship, the lordship and, if Uncle Salazar agrees, everything that Uncle Vernon doesn’t want them to know about – but _only_ if Uncle Salazar agrees.

“Uncle Salazar,” he hedges cautiously at the end of one of their sessions, for that very reason, “Say if I were to talk to Dudley about some things… If I mentioned something that you aren’t allowed to tell him, would you be annoyed?”

Uncle Salazar raises an amused eyebrow.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” he returns dryly, “If I were never told about it – and if Uncle Vernon never had any inkling that I might be involved in such a discussion.”

Harry beams.

With that out of the way, it’s reasonably easy to get Dudley alone. They go out to the local park together, just the two of them, and while they’re on the swings, drifting lazily back and forth under the summer sun, Harry makes his move.

“Dudley, can I tell you something?” he asks, trying to keep his tone calm instead of letting it get too wary.

“Sure,” Dudley shrugs, twisting a little towards him. “What’s up, Haz?”

“I…” Harry hesitates. “You know when your dad told you to stay away from Uncle Salazar?”

Dudley’s brow creases but, to Harry’s relief, he doesn’t get immediately defensive.

“Yes?”

_Here goes_ , Harry thinks, and sucks in a deep breath.

“I know why,” he admits, then ploughs right on, determined to get it all out on the table without any interruptions. “It’s because Uncle Salazar’s gay. And he’s not allowed to tell us, because your dad doesn’t want him _corrupting_ us, but it’s a fairly normal thing in magical culture – people just love whoever. I mean, you’d be better off asking Neville for details, because he’s grown up with it, and he’s the one who told me.”

Is there anything else to be said on that front? Harry can’t think of anything, so he sits and waits, bending and straightening his legs idly while he waits for Dudley to respond.

“Uncle Salazar’s _gay_?” Dudley whispers, eyes wide. “As in…?”

“He likes men,” Harry fills in. “Which is fine in the magical community. No one sees anything wrong with it – at least, traditionally. It has its own Dark versus Light thing going on, but…”

Shrugging, Harry chews his lip and waits for more, but Dudley merely stares at him. After a moment, Harry comes up with something else to say, hoping to prompt his cousin into speech.

“You know how he’s always told us about Godric being his best friend?”

He doesn’t think he needs to finish, and Dudley doesn’t disappoint.

“Oh.” His cousin blinks. “ _Oh_.”

Now, Harry decides, is the time to wait patiently again.

“So… Uncle Salazar is gay – he likes men? And Mum and Dad know this?”

Harry nods in confirmation, watching Dudley’s brain tick through this new concept.

“And the magical community is mostly fine with that kind of thing…” Dudley continues slowly, Harry nodding again, “But Dad isn’t so keen? And he said Uncle Salazar isn’t allowed to tell us? And _that_ ’s why he told me to stay away?”

“Yep,” Harry confirms, popping the ‘p’ just a little. “Uncle Salazar does know I know, and when I _asked_ him about it, he did answer, but if you want to talk to him about it, I think you’ll have to start the conversation – and be _very_ careful that your parents aren’t around.”

For some time, Dudley seems to consider this, eyes wandering over the playing field before them without focusing on it as his fingers fiddle absently with the chains of the swing.

“Huh,” is all he offers finally, taking another minute to mull it over before continuing. “That’s… I don’t know, Harry. Isn’t it a bit…?”

“It’s just people loving each other,” Harry points out, shrugging as he watches his cousin closely. “What’s wrong with that?”

“I…” Dudley hesitates. “I don’t know. I just…”

Trailing off, he shakes his head. Harry opens with mouth, ready to press, but after a brief hesitation, decides not to pursue the topic any further, just in case it makes something worse.

“Just don’t mention it to your dad, alright?” he requests. “Oh, and I’ve got a few more things to tell you…”

Dudley is, luckily, very understanding about Harry’s reasons for keeping quiet about the apprenticeship – and delighted for Harry besides, even hopping off his swing briefly and dragging Harry to a halt just to give him a tight hug in congratulations. The gesture warms Harry more than he could possibly say, and it’s no hard decision to cling back, murmuring his thanks in response to the enthusiastic ‘well done’ offered alongside.

“Also…” he ventures, a little more nervous, “Uncle Salazar has been thinking about, uh… He wants to emancipate me when I turn thirteen.”

The shocked stare that Harry finds himself on the end of isn’t really much of a surprise; it was out of the blue for him as well, and he’s at least been vaguely aware of Uncle Salazar’s discomfort with holding the Potter Lordship over the last three years, whereas Dudley, who hasn’t joined in with Harry’s politics lessons for some time, has rather missed out on that little warning.

“He wants to _emancipate_ you?” Dudley splutters. “As in, make you an adult? That _is_ what it means, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry assures. “He wants me to be able to take over the Potter Lordship, so he only has to worry about…”

Coughing awkwardly, Harry glances around.

“The… other one,” he finishes, far more quietly. “He’d still be supporting me, obviously, and I could go to him for advice, and I’d still be living with him, but –”

“Well, of course you’d be _living_ with him,” Dudley snorts. “It’s not like you’d move away from _us_ just because you’d be a Lord.”

_Right_.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, swallowing the lump in his throat and trying but failing to meet Dudley’s eyes. “Of course.”

Now, he decides, is _not_ the time to get into something like that.

“That’s so cool, though!” Dudley exclaims all of a sudden. “Harry, you’ll be an actual _adult_ – and you’ll be a _Lord_! Do you think you’d be able to boss everyone at school around? Ron Weasley would have to be nicer to you, at least. Harry, that’s actually _awesome_!”

Trying not to laugh, Harry lets his cousin continue and resolves to keep a memory of this locked away for whenever he can hold it over Dudley. It will certainly be useful if he ever needs to remind Dudley of just how _cool_ and _awesome_ he is.

On the morning of 1st September, Harry wakes bright and early, bouncing out of bed with a beam already splitting his cheeks. Today’s the day he goes back to Hogwarts – back to his friends, back to learning, back to _Potions_. Yes, Lockhart will be haunting their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, and Dumbledore will probably try to make himself a nuisance at some point, and part of Harry is even terrified that he’ll end up in yet another terrible situation, but he has his mirror, his Heir ring and several defensive spells tucked under his belt to whip out if he desperately needs them and, besides, he isn’t about to let anything spoil his good mood.

Still, he keeps himself quiet as he tiptoes his way down the stairs for breakfast, because Dudley isn’t so much of a morning person, just like Uncle Vernon, and will probably sleep for another hour or so yet. He doesn’t plan on waking his cousin if he can help it, because a grouchy Dudley is a bad Dudley to spend a long train journey with.

In all honesty, Harry isn’t sure what makes him pause, foot hovering a mere inch above the last step, which just so happens to creak when stood on, but whatever it is telling him to be even more quiet than usual, he listens and steps carefully off the stairs, skipping the creaky step altogether and creeping his way along the hall, gradually registering the soft sound of what almost seems to be someone crying. Trying to pretend that it doesn’t all seem a little like a horror movie, he makes his way carefully to the kitchen, peering in to find it empty – unsurprising, given that he’s woken up earlier than even Aunt Petunia normally would.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t explain the noises that he’s now certain are muffled sobs. The living room, maybe…?

It’s not the living room, Harry realises soon enough, because by the change in volume as he moves, it would appear that whoever is crying is, in fact, somewhere in the other direction – only that would mean the kitchen, which he already knows is unoccupied. Spooked, he hovers in the doorway of the living room, glancing back towards the kitchen and trying to work out where else the sounds could possibly be coming from as his heart thuds a little too quickly against his ribcage.

_The backdoor_ , he remembers finally, shoulders slumping in faint relief as he tiptoes his way back down the hall and through the kitchen to see the backdoor and in it, framed against the sunrise, Uncle Salazar’s hunched form, a familiar amulet clutched in one hand as the man stares blankly out at the golden clouds. Uncle Salazar doesn’t seem to notice Harry, merely pressing the fist wrapped around the amulet to his lips to stifle another soft noise of pain, his head dropping sideways to rest against the doorframe with a dull _thunk_ , and Harry is faintly reminded of the other week, when Uncle Salazar had soothed him after a nightmare, still wearing the same clothes as the day before, eyes red and a little swollen. It seems that his uncle hasn’t slept again, and those are definitely the robes he wore yesterday. Harry doesn’t know what to think, never mind say or do.

If nothing else, he can’t just stand here and let Uncle Salazar remain oblivious to his presence; he’d feel terrible about that, certainly.

“Uncle Salazar?” he murmurs softly, grimacing when his uncle tenses, then Uncle Salazar is turning, amulet back around his neck in a flash, Harry catching just the briefest of glimpses of _something_ held in his other hand before that disappears altogether. “Are you…?”

“Good morning, Harry,” Uncle Salazar greets easily and, suddenly, his face is as fresh as ever, as though he’d never been crying. “I was just enjoying the sunrise. Are you excited to be going back to Hogwarts?”

Unconvinced, Harry stares at him in silence. Whatever the problem was just now, Harry’s fairly sure that Uncle Salazar wasn’t _enjoying_ anything, and he doesn’t really feel like brushing over it.

“Have you been there all night?” he comes up with, Uncle Salazar’s smile falling instantly into something softer but – to Harry’s slight frustration – no less relaxed.

“No,” he assures, apparently amused as he closes the door. “I had some business to attend to late last night, and I’m afraid I rather lost track of the time. I’ve only been home about…”

He checks his watch, hesitating just a beat too long.

“Half an hour or so.”

_That’s a lie_ , Harry tells himself, but can’t work out exactly _why_ he’s so sure of it – at any rate, he’s not certain enough to call Uncle Salazar out on it, so instead he nods in silence then turns to get some muesli out and start on breakfast, unsure of what to think of the way Uncle Salazar staggers a little on his way out of the room. Without a doubt, Uncle Salazar _did_ have business last night, but Harry’s willing to bet that his uncle has been sat in the doorway for far longer than thirty minutes, with his amulet off and Merlin-knows-what in his other hand.

Still, he shakes such thoughts off and turns his attention to his breakfast; he’s going back to Hogwarts today, after all, and he wants to be ready for that.

By the time Dudley emerges, almost two hours later, Aunt Petunia is up, Uncle Salazar has returned from what Harry can only hope was a nap or at least some kind of rest, looking as though nothing has happened, and even Uncle Vernon is at the table eating breakfast. Harry does his best not to laugh at his cousin’s bedhead, but Dudley clearly catches his smirk, because he gets a huff and an eye-roll in response.

“When –” Dudley breaks off to yawn, dropping into a seat next to his father. “When are we leaving?”

“In…” Aunt Petunia checks her watch, “Half an hour.”

Dudley groans, starting to shovel down food as quickly as possible, and Harry watches in silent amusement, using Dudley’s ‘suffering’ as a distraction from Uncle Salazar; it’s harder than Harry could say not to simply stare at his uncle, who seems as fresh-faced as ever but definitely walked into the doorframe when he returned to the kitchen, and now, having not eaten breakfast, sits in silence, nursing his head whenever he seems to think that no one is watching and occasionally wincing at loud noises. Aunt Petunia seems to have noticed as well, because, finally, when Dudley’s finishing his breakfast, she flicks her wand towards one of the cupboards and summons a vial of an unfamiliar potion, handing it to Uncle Salazar without a word. Harry watches, curious, as his uncle shoots her a grateful look then downs the pale pink liquid in one go.

Well, that’s one potion to ask Professor Snape about, at any rate: something that likely treats headaches, but is the wrong colour for a Pain-Relieving Potion, surely can’t be too hard to identify, can it?

In the corner of his vision, Harry catches Uncle Vernon’s disapproving frown and fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Quarter of an hour later, they’re off, piling into the car after saying their goodbyes to Uncle Vernon, who has work, and pulling out of the driveway. Harry meets Dudley’s gaze, mirroring his cousin’s grin, and tries not to bounce too eagerly in his seat at the thought that they’re off to Hogwarts _again_. In just over an hour, he’ll be getting on the train, seeing Hermione, Neville and Draco again, and Harry really can’t wait.

“Excited, are we?” Uncle Salazar asks, lips twitching as he watches them both in the mirror, as though his hands aren’t shaking a little in his lap; Harry struggles briefly for an answer, but is saved by an oblivious Dudley.

“Of course!” his cousin exclaims, seeming almost to vibrate where he sits, and Harry has to admit that he knows the feeling. “It was brilliant first year – it’s going to even better now one of our teachers isn’t trying to steal a hidden object, you know?”

“Yeah, instead we’ve just got an idiot in his place,” Harry huffs. “I think I preferred the psychopathic murderer.”

“But we were down an idiot at the end of the year,” Dudley reasons. “You know, when they got rid of the gamekeeper. So we’ve actually kept the idiot numbers level and _dropped_ a psychopathic murderer.”

That gets a snort from Harry, as much as he tries to keep a straight face, and Dudley beams, clearly delighted with the reaction.

“That’s as long as Lockhart is only an idiot and _not_ –”

“Boys!” Aunt Petunia interrupts sternly, casting a frown at them both in the mirror. “Less of the ‘idiot’ and ‘psychopathic murderer’ talk, please. Talk about something _positive_.”

For a second, Harry can only meet Dudley’s eyes, trying to bite back an outright laugh even as he wrestles with the urge to say something witty.

“But, Mum…” Dudley starts for him, “Having fewer idiots _is_ positive –”

“Dudley Dursley!” Aunt Petunia barks as Harry starts laughing. “Behave, or you’ll be walking the rest of the way to the station.”

Thankfully, they make it to King’s Cross without anyone being kicked out of the car, Aunt Petunia hugging them both and kissing their crowns before wiping at her eyes, smile a little wobbly.

“Look at you both,” she whispers. “Your second year of Hogwarts – you’ve just grown up so _fast_ …”

She stands, sniffing, but her smile remains as Uncle Salazar crouches in her place, and the pride that Harry sees in her eyes warms his chest.

“Stay safe,” Uncle Salazar tells them calmly, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “Keep your mirrors on you, and remember that going to a professor, even if Dumbledore is there, is better than facing something alone, understand? Don’t seek out trouble.”

Briefly, a frown flickers across his face, his eyes drifting sideways as something seems to occur to him.

“What is it?” Dudley asks curiously, and the moment is gone, Uncle Salazar shaking himself swiftly and offering a reassuring smile.

“Nothing. I just remembered something I meant to do. I’ll do it another time – it wasn’t urgent.”

Harry glances at Dudley, but gets only a shrug in return and, really, it’s already a given that Uncle Salazar won’t say anything more on the matter.

“I love you both, and you can come to me about anything, alright?” the man rounds off, holding out his arms for each of them in turn; Harry lets Dudley go first, holding on for a few more seconds when it’s his turn to settle his mouth close to Uncle Salazar’s ear.

“You should find someone you can go to about anything,” he tells his uncle quietly, the image of Uncle Salazar crying alone a matter of hours ago still fresh in his mind.

For a beat, Uncle Salazar’s arms tighten, a palm settling against his back to rub up and down in long, soothing strokes.

“Don’t worry about me,” his uncle murmurs softly. “I’m fine.”

There isn’t time to argue that, with the platform rapidly starting to fill, and Harry doesn’t think it would be a good moment anyway, with Dudley and Aunt Petunia both standing so close, so he merely fixes Uncle Salazar with his most incredulous stare when he pulls away, earning himself a half-smile which does nothing to hide the sadness in Uncle Salazar’s eyes.

Turning away, Harry swallows down his disappointment, which seems to have stuck itself into his throat quite painfully, and follows Dudley onto the train. Already, the whole corridor seems packed, every compartment they pass occupied, and their trunks seem heavier by the second, certainly much fuller than they were last year, with the number of extra books required for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Luckily, they find Hermione waiting in a compartment about halfway down the train, curled up on the seat with a book, which she looks up briefly from to beam at them and offer first Harry, and then Dudley, a hug. Knowing his friend, Harry doesn’t try to interrupt, instead pulling out one of his Defence books to laugh over with Dudley; they make surprisingly good entertainment, even if they are overall a waste of space, effort and money, and neither Harry nor Dudley were brought up to waste a good opportunity.

The train journey passes quietly enough, Draco joining them to pore over the books and point out several of the less obvious flaws, while Neville watches in quiet amusement and fiddles with his new wand, apparently still in awe of the difference it had started making to his practical performance in classes last school year. When the sweet trolley arrives, they go all out on snacks, and Harry has to quickly cover for Dudley when his cousin starts laughing at a chocolate frog card with the name ‘Salazar Slytherin’ on it; the picture looks _nothing_ like Uncle Salazar, besides the eyes, which seem to be the only accurate feature to have survived the centuries. If nothing else, this man is _far_ too old.

At the end of the train ride, Harry has to admit that it’s quite cool to journey to the castle in carriages that seem to move on their own, though something just… _prickles_ at him, telling him that maybe things aren’t quite what they first appear. He shrugs it off, sitting back to enjoy the trip with his friends, and by the time they’re all sat down in the Great Hall, ready to watch the Sorting from the outside for the first time, he’s all but forgotten about it.

“Good holiday, Harry?” Terry asks him cheerfully, voice raised just enough to be heard over the din in the rest of the hall.

“Yeah, it was great, thanks,” Harry confirms, smiling at his housemate. “And you? You were going to France with your family, weren’t you?”

“That’s right!” Terry enthuses, lighting up at once. “It was _brilliant_ …”

Harry listens to Terry’s stories with a small smile that slowly grows to grin and then to an outright laugh as Terry describes the prank his parents had played on him and his siblings. Soon, the rest of their Ravenclaw year-mates have tuned in to the ludicrous tales spilling from Terry’s mouth, the sheer hilarity of it all lightening an invisible weight from Harry’s shoulders that he hadn’t even realised was there. Really, there’s no better story-teller than Terry, who always seems to know exactly the right moments to pause, and just where to embellish the truth to wring out maximum effect.

The entertainment is finally called to a halt with a loud, creaking groan, silence blanketing the hall in seconds as the double doors swing slowly open to allow Professor McGonagall to lead the new First-Years in – and isn’t that a thought? They’re not the youngest year anymore. They have responsibility, now. A shiver runs down Harry’s spine, and he has to fight to keep his anticipation locked away, for fear that it might make his smile seem a little _too_ predatory.

Unfortunately, without Terry distracting them, it soon becomes apparent that the Sorting is _far_ too long, because Harry is hungry, and honestly, he just wants to eat. Luckily, Dumbledore’s announcements are short and simple – there are no prohibited areas of the castle, if nothing else – and _finally_ , he can tuck in and enjoy the incredible spread of food before him.

“Say, Harry,” Padma starts when their ravenous stomachs have all been somewhat sated, “Are you planning to try out for the Quidditch team this year? You’d make an _incredible_ reserve Seeker.”

“I…” Harry hesitates, then concedes, “I might. I guess I’ll have to see what else I’ve got going on – I’m meant to be having three sessions with Professor Snape this year, and I don’t really want to get behind on my non-magical learning, you know? Plus I need _some_ downtime.”

“That’s fair,” she agrees easily. “The study group’s still going to be going, right?”

“It’d better be!” Lisa exclaims, Tony nodding and swallowing his food down quickly.

“It was _so_ helpful last year – and surely this year’s only going to be harder? I want to be on top of _everything_.”

_Yeah_ , Harry thinks, shifting to settle a little more comfortably on the bench as he spears a potato and raises it to his mouth, _it’s great to be back_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I hope you are all well/coping in these trying times. I would, of course, love to hear any thoughts/opinions/theories/feedback, or anything else you have to say, be it related or otherwise.

If Harry thought, originally, that Lockhart would make a bad Defence teacher, he was very, horribly mistaken. Lockhart doesn’t make a bad Defence teacher; he makes a _terrible_ Defence teacher, and his strange obsession with both fame and Harry himself makes it all so much worse. By the end of the first week, Harry has taken to telling the man that Uncle Salazar doesn’t want them speaking outside of class, just to avoid his new professor’s insufferable presence. Of course, it’s not true in the slightest, but although everyone apart from Lockhart knows the excuse is bullshit – Lockhart has no political position other than a very vague propensity towards the Light – the other professors go along with it as though it’s the most reasonable thing they’ve heard, so Harry likes to think that they’re just grateful not to have to come up with another way to excuse him from such encounters themselves.

The rest of his classes are brilliant, though. Mandrakes, particularly, are highly fascinating – as is the entirety of Greenhouse Three, to be honest – and Harry takes particular delight in watching the way Neville’s entire face brightens when he talks about them or Herbology in general, his friend going from a fairly quiet boy to talking a mile a minute about plants, their uses and the best way to care for each and every one. Several times, it almost gets them kicked out of the library.

There’s only one other problem with his year so far, and that’s the small Gryffindor boy who keeps popping up out of nowhere and snapping pictures without Harry’s consent, constantly trying to talk to him and peppering him with overly enthusiastic greetings whenever they pass one another between classes. So far, Harry has managed to get him to destroy each and every photo as soon as it has been produced, but that doesn’t seem to dissuade the boy – Colin Creevey – from trying again and again and again, and Harry isn’t enough of a fool to think that he’ll catch the nuisance every time – or that he’ll have the patience to maintain the polite manner that he has managed to hold up for each interaction so far.

Aside from all of that, though, it doesn’t take Harry long at all to settle into a comfortable routine of potion-making with Professor Snape on Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings, running with Hermione and Dudley on Tuesday and Saturday mornings, circuit training with Dudley on Thursday morning, flying with anyone who’ll join him on Saturday afternoons and study group with most of his year on Sunday afternoons. The rest of his time, he splits between homework and other studies, letter-writing, and general down-time, wandering around the grounds with his friends or watching Mandy and Lisa’s latest attempt to gain something over the other in their long-time Chess feud or, when the mood strikes him, exploring the castle alone while he tries to work out what he could possibly do to help Uncle Salazar.

It’s this last aim that leads him to the library on a Tuesday evening, poring intently over one particular book, which he spotted quite by accident while searching for some extra information to slip into his Charms homework. _How to Cope with Loss_ is quite an interesting read, he’s found so far, but there’s so much discussion of closure and really, that’s not something that Uncle Salazar is ever going to have; he’s not even sure how much of a goodbye his uncle got, or if it all happened too quickly for that.

Uncle Salazar shares a lot about his past, but the accident that brought him back is _not_ something he opens up about easily – or ever, really, beyond the basics.

Sighing, Harry closes the book and pushes out of his slumped position to stretch and yawn. He should be heading back to Ravenclaw Tower soon; it’s close to curfew, and he’s trying to maintain a good sleep-wake cycle. That in mind, he puts the book back with a mental note of his current page – he doesn’t really want to explain why he’s taking a book on grief out of the library – and starts the walk back to the common room, still lost in his thoughts. The idea of closure keeps cycling around in his head, not leaving him alone even as he tries to dismiss it in favour of more helpful ideas, until finally, he gives up and considers it; there’s no harm in going through it properly, even if he already knows how useless a road it is to go down. After all, it’s not like he has anything else to work off, and maybe it will give him some better ideas to try, if nothing else.

Closure for Uncle Salazar would probably be a chance to say a proper goodbye to Godric, from what little Harry knows, though he can’t say even that for certain. Unfortunately, there’s no way for them to talk again – or they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. It’s not like there’s any way to communicate through time, unless Harry can work out a way to send messages back to about one thousand years ago.

Frustrated, he trudges the rest of the way up to the common room and mumbles the answer to the riddle, unable to muster any particular enthusiasm for it with most of his mind occupied by how to help his uncle. It was an easy riddle anyway.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Isobel calls as he passes, Harry deflating at the question – he just planned to get up to bed and go to sleep – but turning to offer a weak smile anyway.

“Fine,” he assures her, then slumps further at her disbelieving stare.

“Come on,” she encourages, patting the cushion next to her as Sue and Oliver watch on in quiet interest. “Talk to me about it.”

Reluctantly, Harry drops down beside her and draws in a deep breath as she twists to face him properly.

“It’s just…”

Trailing off, he bites his lip and tries to work out what to say. Obviously, he can’t reveal any of Uncle Salazar’s secrets, but maybe, they could help think of _something_.

“My uncle lost someone recently,” he explains carefully. “Actually, it was a few years ago, and it was quite a few people, all at the same time. And he’s been… weirdly fine about it? I mean, he’s sad about it, but he never really _mourned_ them, I don’t think – I don’t know, I didn’t really think about it until recently, because I think it’s actually getting to him. He doesn’t want to admit it, though, so he hasn’t got anyone helping him.”

Isobel frowns.

“What about your aunt and uncle – your other uncle?”

Pulling a face, Harry shakes his head, even as a memory of Aunt Petunia handing Uncle Salazar an unfamiliar potion sparks into life; he meant to ask Professor Snape what it was, and maybe he can do that tomorrow.

“They don’t actually get on that well,” he admits. “Particularly my uncles.”

The tilt of Isobel’s head is a clear prompt to elaborate.

“Well, Uncle Vernon’s a muggle, right?” Harry hedges, waiting until he gets an uncertain nod to continue. “He’s a Christian – Christianity is a muggle religion – and Christians don’t tend to like relationships between men. And Uncle Salazar’s gay.”

Slowly, Isobel’s lips round in a silent ‘o’ of realisation, then she nods her acknowledgement.

“It…” Harry hesitates, wondering if this is too far, but forges on. “It probably wouldn’t help that one of the people Uncle Salazar lost was his –” he stumbles briefly, “– boyfriend.”

“Oh…” Padma whispers nearby, eyes wide with sympathy as her lips tug downwards. “Poor man…”

Uncomfortable, Harry shifts and manages a jerky nod.

“Anyway,” he hurries on, trying to brush over the awkward atmosphere, “I’m trying to find something to help him, because I’m pretty sure he’s not as okay as he’s trying to pretend, but the book I’ve been reading…”

He shrugs helplessly, turning his gaze away from the sad eyes of his housemates.

“It just goes on about closure,” he concludes. “I don’t know how to get him that.”

Isobel lifts a thumb to chew at the nail in silent consideration, watching Harry with a creased brow, and Harry waits anxiously for her thoughts, recognising the frown as one the girl normally wears when something is tugging at her; Isobel doesn’t disappoint.

“Doesn’t your uncle have any portraits?” she asks, cocking her head sideways, and Harry stops on the verge of shaking his head.

“I don’t… _think_ so?” he offers carefully, trying to work out if Uncle Salazar might somehow have brought one with him, but of course he wouldn’t have; paintings in those times were very rare and were certainly far too big to carry around. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh, that’s difficult,” Isobel murmurs, pained. “Sorry, Harry. I… There’s nothing I can think of, unless you can find a portrait anywhere else.”

“It’s fine,” Harry assures them, managing another weak smile before pushing up and off the couch. “I’m going to get some sleep, now – I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

A chorus of ‘goodnight’s echoes behind him as he makes his way towards the stairs that lead to the dormitories, and he responds with a half-hearted wave, both an acknowledgement and a reciprocation of sorts.

“Oh – Harry!” Lisa calls, just as he’s about to make his escape altogether, and reluctantly, he turns back, scanning the busy common room to find her. “Don’t forget it’s try-outs at the weekend!”

Tiredly grateful, Harry merely nods and forces a smile before turning back in the direction of his bed. This time, _no one_ is going to stop him.

Luckily, no one tries, and he _finally_ makes it to his bed, a smile twitching faintly at his lips, only for that relief to fade with the realisation that he still has to brush his teeth and get into his pyjamas.

_Fuck._

When Hogwarts was built, a little over a thousand years ago, it was, for the most part, with the purpose of creating a welcoming, safe atmosphere for all those who came to ask for shelter, whether they took the inhabitants up on the offer of education alongside or not. However, there was a reason that such a place of asylum was required, and that reason meant that not every part of Hogwarts could be warm, friendly and inviting; there had to be a place where the dirty work could be done, where those who threatened the security of the castle and its occupants could be properly dealt with.

Thus, the dungeons were created. Alongside their primary purpose, they also housed the more dangerous lessons taught by the Founders of the castle, due to the heavy warding designed to keep all threats well-contained in the bowels of the magical haven that was Hogwarts, but ultimately, they were designed to be unpleasant – to be cold, dark, and a little bit damp, breeding a sense of despair to creep slowly into the heads of those trapped in its more… _secure_ rooms.

Fortunately for those with other uses, such dark and insidious Mind Magics – so subtle that, even a thousand years later, no one could provide any proof of their existence besides myth and rumour – were confined masterfully to the most hidden depths of the dungeons, leaving only that pervading sense of cold to gradually disturb any who now choose to spend substantial lengths of time at such depths without the use of warming charms.

For one young wizard, the favourite – and only – nephew of one of the aforementioned Founders, it could be considered less fortunate that such warming charms cannot be used when brewing the majority of potions, lest the external magic interfere with the potion itself. As such, Harry Potter has to fight the urge to shiver a little as he packs away the last of his equipment, the question he desperately wants to ask fizzing away inside him. Is now the time to bring it up? Will it seem strange or suspicious, coming out of the blue like this? What if it’s a secret of Uncle Salazar’s, and no one is meant to know about it?

Somehow, Harry suspects that the last is unlikely; otherwise, Uncle Salazar would have either made it clear to both Harry and Dudley not to mention anything even remotely connected to the subject, or wouldn’t have allowed them even the slightest sliver of a chance at seeing the potion.

“What is it, Mr Potter?” Professor Snape sighs, mild exasperation in both his tone and the tapping of his finger against the edge of the desk he sits on. “You’re clearly desperate to ask something. Now is your chance.”

“I…” Harry hesitates.

“Your _only_ chance,” Professor Snape clarifies, a little impatient, and although Harry knows that the Potions Master would never be able to tell if it were the same question, should he ask another time, he jumps into gear anyway.

“If I told you that a potion was a pale pink colour, had about the consistency of the Forgetfulness Potion and seemed to help with headaches, could you tell me what it was?”

Professor Snape’s eyebrows lift at once.

“The potion I would assume you’re describing is a Purification Potion; the specific kind would be one most often used to treat hangovers. Where did you come across such a potion?”

Uncertain, Harry bites his lip.

“My aunt gave Uncle Salazar one to drink before we left for the train the other week,” he explains carefully, Professor Snape’s eyebrows rising further, then, because Professor Snape is the most trustworthy adult Harry knows besides Uncle Salazar and might be able to help, he admits, “I’m worried about him.”

For a beat, Professor Snape says nothing, face blank and unreadable as he studies Harry in silence, then he lifts his chin in subtle acknowledgement.

“Would you like to expand on that, Mr Potter?” he asks, silky as ever.

“Well – I mean…” Harry fumbles, struggling for words until he remembers that Uncle Salazar told Professor Snape the truth last school year, after the incident with the Stone. “You know what happened – how he came back to…”

Professor Snape nods.

“Well, he never really seemed _that_ bothered about it,” Harry explains. “He was sad, but he wasn’t _devastated_ or anything. And now… I think he’s struggling with it – but it’s been _three years_! Shouldn’t he be getting better, not…?”

“Grief is a funny thing, Mr Potter,” Professor Snape murmurs in a solemn tone, standing slowly but not making any move to approach. “If he has not mourned before, then perhaps he is taking that time now. Try not to worry about it, but if you would like, I will keep an eye on him myself.”

For a moment, Harry hovers on the verge of asking exactly _how_ Professor Snape plans to do that, but he supposes that the Potions Master has formed quite a solid friendship with his uncle over the last year. Professor Snape would probably do a better job of helping, too; he seems to know what he’s talking about. Harry just wishes that there were something _he_ could do.

“Alright,” he whispers, trying not to let his inner turmoil show on his face. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Quite alright, Mr Potter,” Professor Snape allows, then flicks his wand. “Now, I believe you should be making your way up to Ravenclaw Tower, should you not?”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry confirms, tucking away his knife and folding up his cauldron. “Goodnight, Sir.”

“Goodnight, Mr Potter.”

Harry’s just ten metres from the base of Ravenclaw Tower when he hears it: just the faintest of whispers, seeming to come from a distant part of the castle but still carrying to him, horribly sinister as it echoes all around him.

“ _Rip… Tear… Kill… Come to me… Let me kill you…_ ”

For a moment, Harry freezes, heart pounding in his chest as he tries to convince himself that it’s just his sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on him. He watched too many horror movies over the summer, is all.

“ _Let me tear you…_ ” the voice continues, definitely closer now, and Harry doesn’t stick around to find out if it _is_ his imagination or not; drawing his wand just in case, he bolts up the stairs and doesn’t stop until he’s back in the safety of the common room, glad that no one seems to notice how flustered he is.

He’ll mention it to Uncle Salazar in the morning, or Professor Snape – when he’s actually had a chance to sleep.

When he wakes up in the morning, the voice is gone and nothing bad has happened, so he dismisses it as a bad dream and carries on with his day.

The weekend seems to creep up on Harry after that strange encounter. Despite having dismissed it as a dream, the memory of it still follows him around, prickling just slightly at the back of his neck until he gives in to the urge to look around and make sure that nothing’s there, just for the whole cycle to start again. Even worse, when he’s not looking around for the source of a murderous whisper, he’s trying to spot that Creevey boy, desperate to avoid any interaction with the small, irritating ball of energy and camera flashes. Does he know _nothing_ about privacy? Does he not understand that Harry is a human being too – and only one year older than him at that?

Truthfully, it’s infuriating, and Harry is getting tired of hiding that.

_Speak of the devil_ , he thinks as he follows Terry out of the castle after breakfast and down towards the Quidditch grounds, only to catch a flash of light in the corner of his eye.

Groaning his frustration as Terry shoots him a sympathetic look, he spins on his heel, catches sight of the brat, and unleashes his irritation and stress from the entirety of the term so far.

“ _Creevey_!” he roars, and the boy freezes, midway through perking up to offer his usual cheery greeting. “Get rid of that photograph, then _leave me alone_ , understand? I’m not some fame-hungry celebrity, I don’t need a _fan-club_ , and I certainly don’t want another student stalking my every move!”

_Maybe that was a little heavy-handed_ , he admits internally as Creevey’s eyes fill with tears, the boy destroying the undeveloped photograph then fleeing quicker than Harry could ever have expected.

“Harry…” Terry mutters at his side, “Maybe that was a bit….”

“I know,” Harry sighs, dropping his head back to stare up at the sky as he inhales and tries to compose himself. “I just… He hasn’t got the message before, and… There’s so much going on; him hanging around is the last thing I need when…”

Trailing off, he shakes his head and doesn’t mention that he’s still worried about Uncle Salazar, or that he’s finding it a little hard to sleep; whenever he isn’t waking up drenched in sweat to the echo of a dragon’s roar or a piercing ache in his skull, it’s to that malevolent whisper, which just hasn’t left his mind since Wednesday.

“Yeah, fair enough,” Terry agrees, seeming to understand at least a little of what Harry’s thinking, having seen the nightmares and likely heard about Harry’s worries regarding Uncle Salazar. “Come on, let’s get him off your mind, alright?”

Grateful, Harry nods. It’s try-outs for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team today, and Harry’s agreed to go for the Seeker position, although he holds no illusions of being better than Cho Chang, the current Seeker. Hermione and Dudley were both very understanding when it came to him telling them that he wouldn’t be running with them this morning, and he thinks they might actually be planning to come along and see if they can watch, which would be nice, but at the same time… more pressure.

_Lots_ more pressure.

Still, if there’s one thing Harry knows about sports, it’s that he needs to focus on what he can control – and _only_ on what he can control. If his friends are watching him, then so be it. It won’t have any influence on his performance beside what he lets it.

“Nervous?” Terry asks him quietly, Harry hesitating as he considers the question before shrugging.

“Of course,” he replies. “But that’s good.”

Terry squints at him, visibly confused.

“…Is it?”

“It’s good to have some nerves,” Harry explains as they near the Quidditch pitch. “Keeps you sharp and ready to go.”

For another moment, Terry eyes him, then purses his own lips thoughtfully.

“I’ve never really thought about that,” he admits slowly. “I suppose it makes sense…”

Nodding, Harry pauses at the side of the pitch and sucks in a deep breath. _Here goes…_

The try-outs pass as a blur of nervous anticipation, Harry waiting in the stands close to the side of the pitch with his broomstick, horribly aware of Cho Chang barely over a metre away – and several other prospective Seekers from older years, too. A few of them have already looked him up and down in silent assessment, clearly dismissing him as a non-threat, but Harry ignores them, trying to keep as much of his focus as possible on his own flying. Honestly, he thinks he has slightly more of a chance against Chang than he’s been willing to admit to his friends, but probably not enough to become the first choice Seeker – and certainly not enough that he won’t have to throw absolutely _everything_ at this.

“Seekers!” Roger Davies, Ravenclaw Captain, calls finally, smiling and waving at Chang then greeting the rest of Harry’s opponents in a similarly friendly manner, but with noticeably less warmth, before finally getting to Harry. “Alright, Harry? You know what’s going on? Remember what you need to do?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry assures, nodding; he’s already gone through formal introductions with Roger, right at the start of the try-outs, and had the process explained to him them. “Catch the snitches as quickly as possible, preferably quicker than everyone else.”

“Right,” Roger confirms, grinning. “That’s the one. Cho, you’re up first!”

Chang nods, mounts her broom, and is off the ground in an instant, hovering calmly while she waits for Roger’s signal.

“Three… Two… One… Go!”

And she’s off. Harry watches in silence from Roger’s side, faintly aware of the Captain watching her as well; time isn’t the only thing that counts, because sometimes a quick time can be a fluke, or a slow time, the result of a particularly difficult snitch. Still, there’s no denying that Chang _is_ quick – far quicker than most of the other hopefuls had realised, if their restless fidgeting and wide eyes are anything to go by.

In all honesty, the only reason Harry _isn’t_ surprised is that he spent the entirety of every Quidditch match last year studying the Seekers of each team, Chang included, to work out _exactly_ what makes them so good; if he’s going to do this, he certainly plans to do it right, and that started long before he’d made his mind up that he’d give it a shot in the first place.

In a matter of minutes, she’s down, pulling each of the five practice snitches from her pocket in turn to present them to Roger.

“Great,” he tells her, grinning as he releases the snitches again, and there’s the camaraderie that Harry will have to contend with as well. “Brilliant, Cho. Alright, Alan, your go.”

None of the rest even seem to come _close_ to Chang, and as Harry watches them make their attempts, he starts to wonder if maybe, he’s miscalculated. Perhaps the practice he’s been doing is nothing like the real thing, or the positive feedback that he’s had from both Dudley and Uncle Salazar has been over-exaggerated, or maybe he should stop doubting himself, because it’s really not going to help, _Potter_.

For all he knows, the rest of the Seekers are just sub-par, which gives him an even better chance of making reserve. He won’t know until he’s done it, and for that, he needs _focus_.

“Alright, Harry, are you ready?”

Harry looks up, blinks as he realises that everyone else has finished, and nods. For a moment, Roger eyes him, clearly a little dubious – then again, he has been ever since he saw Harry, apparently somewhat uncertain when it comes to Harry’s age – but returns the gesture and offers an encouraging smile as Harry mounts his broom and pushes up from the ground.

“Three…”

Harry doesn’t watch Roger, instead scanning the air for the snitches through narrowed eyes, his glasses spelled firmly to his face with several clearing charms layered over the top.

“Two…”

Sucking in a deep breath, he shifts his grip on the broomstick, then starts to let the air slowly back out.

“One…”

He draws in another lungful of air, spots a flash of gold, and tenses, ready to spring after it.

“Go!”

He goes.

In a way, flying is a bit of a blur itself for Harry, but not in the same way as the try-outs were; this is more the kind of blur where everything that’s important is focused and present in the sharpest of detail, time almost seeming to slow even as his brain hurtles on at a hundred miles an hour, information flashing in and out as his focus narrows much the same way as when he’s brewing. This isn’t just flying, though; this is flying with an aim in mind, and he plans to fulfil that goal as efficiently as possible, starting with _that_ glint over there.

Harry swoops and dives, racing after each and every snitch with his teeth gritted against the biting September wind, avoiding crashing by what feels like sheer determination on several occasions, though in the back of his mind, he’s faintly aware that it’s actually down to the amount of practice he put in over the summer, learning exactly where his limits are and what he can do with them. There’s no real time to dwell on the thrill of it; he just lets it sweep through him without disrupting his concentration and snatches the snitch he’s been after from the air, tucking it away and wheeling about to find another flash of gold, then he’s off again.

When he lands next to Roger, most of the prospective Seekers are gone, only Chang remaining, and she watches him with arms folded and head cocked, eyes narrowed not in hostility, but consideration.

“Well,” Roger starts, raising an eyebrow, then grins. “I’m certainly impressed, Harry, and Cho is as well. You’ve got a few things to learn, but Cho and I are thinking that perhaps she could mentor you? You’d be our Reserve Seeker for the time being, but there’d definitely be a long-term development project ongoing. Your styles _are_ different, I’ll give you that, but I think you could both learn a bit from each other to get more variation, and the competition will be good for you both. Then when Cho leaves, we’ll have another top-quality Seeker in place to take over – just a shame I won’t be around to see it.”

Chang smiles and nods, holding out her hand.

“Heir Potter,” she greets formally, and Harry takes the hand.

“Miss Chang,” he returns, aware that she is neither from a noble family nor the heir. “Please, call me Harry.”

“In that case, Harry, I’d much rather go by Cho,” she allows, grinning. “Alright, I know you’re busy with Professor Snape a lot – don’t give me that look, rumours spread quickly, especially when it’s something like _that_. It’s always a big deal when he decides to give someone extra tutoring…”

A little off-balance and somewhat embarrassed, Harry ducks his head and shrugs, hearing Roger chuckle behind him.

“I’ve seen you flying on Saturday afternoons,” Cho continues. “I’m normally free then, if you’d like to make that a regular session between us – though normal training is around this time each week, of course, so that would make for a whole day of flying…”

The spark in her eyes tells Harry that she’s very much not averse to the idea, and he can’t say it bothers him all that much either.

“I’m good with that,” he tells her, returning her smile. “Are we starting _today_ , or…?”

“Hmm…” She tilts her head, tapping her finger against her chin, then shrugs with a wink. “I don’t see why _not_ …”

“Good to see I made the right choice,” Roger announces behind them, a note of laughter in his tone as he straightens from packing away the equipment. “You two are going to be an _excellent_ team – just make sure you get a good lunch in. I won’t have my Seeker _and_ Reserve injured at the same time – or at all, if possible. Harry, whole-team training will start next weekend, meeting here at eight, and it goes until ten. Is that alright?”

No longer unable to keep his smile from spreading to an all-out beam, Harry nods his happy confirmation and gets a chuckle, Roger leaning over to ruffle his hair before heading off.

“Between you and me,” Cho whispers, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “We’re going to _crush_ the opposition. Meet you here at two?”

“Sounds good!” Harry agrees eagerly, returning her wave as she starts towards the castle, and has barely turned to collect his things before a solid mass collides with him. “Ouch – Dud!”

“Well done, Haz!” Dudley exclaims without letting go; in fact, he seems to squeeze even tighter. “I’m so proud of you!”

“That was brilliant, Harry,” Hermione tells him softly, then bites her lip. “But… What’s this Neville’s been saying about you making a First-Year cry?”

“He had it coming,” Terry offers, somewhat unhelpfully, from nearby. “You know that kid who won’t stop harassing Harry? Harry finally lost his patience and shouted at him to leave him alone. It was… I mean, maybe it was a bit over the top, but let’s be fair, it was a long time coming,” he concludes, turning to Harry. “I was surprised you held out that long without jinxing him. Well done on making the team, by the way. We said you could do it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mutters, rolling his eyes even as guilt settles into his stomach. “Did I really make him cry? I didn’t mean to – I just couldn’t stand –”

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Dudley soothes. “Everyone’s seen how hard you’ve tried to be nice to him when he just wouldn’t leave you alone. No one’s going to blame you for it or anything.”

Harry hesitates, glancing at Hermione, and only relaxes when she sighs and nods her reluctant agreement.

“He _did_ need to learn that he can’t treat people like that,” she allows. “Even if it might have been a slightly harsh lesson.”

Indeed, no one _does_ seem to be too upset with Harry. Some of the Gryffindors shoot him uncertain stares, but no one looks angry, and no one comes to talk to him about it, even the professors. Creevey, certainly, is nowhere to be seen, and Harry tries not to feel too bad about that.

The guilt is overrun very quickly with the realisation of how much easier it is to get through a day without the boy constantly popping up to annoy him; Harry relaxes very happily into a far less stressful routine, with some added Quidditch training. He’s on top of his classes, he’s making progress with Professor Snape, he’s keeping up with his non-magical studies, and everything seems to be going well – aside from, of course, one blond twit of a Defence teacher who seems to have made it his life’s goal to torment Harry with demonstration after _fucking_ demonstration.

“Now, eh…” Lockhart beams around the classroom, rubbing his hands together in a way that Harry is _sure_ reminds him of a stereotypical bad guy – or maybe that’s just himself projecting. “Demonstration time, boys and girls…”

_Boys and girls. What a horribly_ Light _thing to say._

Next to him, Hermione scowls; on his other side, Draco scoffs; nearby, Blaise Zabini mutters something that Harry wouldn’t even repeat to Uncle Salazar if asked. For a moment, he struggles to keep a straight face, because really, Lockhart deserves it, but all amusement fades as that sickeningly twinkly gaze comes to rest on him.

“Oh, well-volunteered, Harry!” Lockhart exclaims, beckoning him up.

Slouching a little in his seat, Harry scoots his chair slowly back, drawing out the process for as long as he can just to remind everyone that he did _not_ volunteer, and nor would he ever. Really, he doesn’t need to make a statement, because the rest of the class is already staring at him in sympathetic understanding, but his pride won’t allow him to just accept this without making a stand of _some_ sort.

“All the way up to the front,” Lockhart tells him cheerfully, waving him over. “That’s it. That’s it, Harry. Excellent. You’ll be a proper star in no time.”

Harry casts his eyes up to the ceiling as soon as Lockhart turns away, making a show of searching for strength, and hears several snickers. Ever since the first disastrous lesson, in which Lockhart unleashed a swarm of Cornish pixies on them and left them to clear it all up, it has become a dance of sorts: Lockhart dragging Harry up to re-enact some tale from his books or another, Harry doing his best to provide his classmates with some actual entertainment while uniting everyone in their shared dislike of their teacher, and Draco sharing the relevant inconsistencies of whatever tale Lockhart has decided to force them through, so that, at the end, several hands can be raised, each with exactly the same question on the tip of the owner’s tongue.

Every single lesson ends with Lockhart making a panicked excuse to flee their pointed enquiries, and Harry’s starting to wonder if the man might be terminally stupid because, after more than a month of teaching, he still doesn’t seem to have figured out the recurring pattern.

“Now, a nice, _big_ howl for me, Harry – you’re a werewolf, alright? A big, bad werewolf. On the count of three – one, two, three…”

Harry glares daggers at him, draws in a deep breath, sees Lockhart tense in anticipation to continue his dramatic story-telling, and yips like a chihuahua.

The explosion of laughter that sweeps through the entire classroom is more than worth Lockhart’s temporary scowl – no, who is Harry kidding? The scowl is a reward in itself. Not bothering to hide his satisfied grin, he waits for Lockhart’s blustery response and reminds himself to thank Dudley for unknowingly planting the idea of were-chihuahuas in Harry’s head the other day.

“That – _That_ was brilliant!” Draco splutters when they’re free, wandering down the main staircase for dinner. “His face – Harry, his _face_ …”

“It was rather well done,” Hermione allows, lips twitching with a barely repressed smirk of her own.

“Inspired,” Blaise agrees, slapping Harry on the back as he passes, Pansy flashing them all a grin from his other side. “Good work, that.”

Harry opens his mouth, about to tell them all that they did quite well themselves, only to falter when a familiar whisper echoes through the castle around him.

“ _Come to me… Let me rip you… Let me tear you…_ ”

The voice is back.

“ _Let me kill you… So hungry…_ ”

“Harry?” Hermione asks, peering at him, and Harry jolts with the realisation that he’s stopped in the middle of the staircase, his friends peering at him with clear concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Harry assures quickly, shaking his head. “Fine, just thought I’d forgotten something in his classroom.”

“But you haven’t?” she checks, nudging him to start moving when he shakes his head in confirmation.

“Lucky you,” Draco snorts. “Imagine having to go _back_ when you’ve only just escaped in the first place.”

Weakly, Harry manages a laugh, but luckily, his friends are distracted by Neville and Dudley appearing from one of the other staircases to join them. Maybe, he should mention the voice to someone, just in case there’s something going on; maybe, there’s something wrong with him.

No, he’s just still sleep-deprived or something, even if his sleep schedule _has_ been somewhat better over the last week. He’s hearing one thing and his brain is making it into something else. He’s fine.

He’s absolutely fine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning! Good news: you probably weren't aware that I've gone 1-2 weeks at least without writing a single word on this series (I've been taking the writing equivalent of a holiday by starting a relatively lazy Cats fic instead, and I've had a minor case of writer's block besides), but I got through most of a chapter yesterday, which is definitely promising compared to the last while. That chapter _was_ Chapter 7 of Third Year, I should say, so it won't be affecting my update schedule any time soon.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all well and, as ever, I'd love to hear from you!

Samhain is a special day in the magical calendar of the British Isles, even amongst the other quarter and cross-quarter rituals – or those that remain, at any rate. The majority of the rituals work to connect those who partake in them with the magic of the land, saturating them in that energy and purifying them of many toxins to replenish them, more than enough to tide them through to the next marked date in the year and beyond, for a full twelve months if entirely necessary. Samhain, too, is a ritual of connection, but not so much with the magic of the land as with the individual souls who have left the land of the living under Death’s steady hand to let that which tethered them to bodies join with the land magic.

The more time that passes since a soul has journeyed through the void, the more the magic that holds it to the land of the living fuses with the land magic that surrounds it; within a matter of centuries, the average soul has no tether to the mortal world, and usually, that is not a problem for those intending to perform the Samhain ritual.

Very few ever seek to remember and honour those who passed several hundred years ago, never mind close to one thousand.

In a small house in the south of England, however, alone in the darkness of his bedroom with a candle the only source of light, Salazar Slytherin closes his eyes to compose himself and tries to hold back the tears welling with the knowledge that, as ever, he will only see a handful of the faces he will be honouring tonight.

This will only be the second time he has performed this ritual alone. He does not think it will be any easier than the first.

Clearing his throat to rid it of the painful lump within, he straightens his back and opens his eyes to fix on the candle, trying not to wish that he had taken Petunia up on her offer to join him. In her own words, she doesn’t ‘buy in’ to the quarter and cross-quarter rituals and, as much as some company might have been a much-needed support, he thinks that knowing that she didn’t believe in it would make everything worse.

And so, here he sits.

Alone.

Drawing in a deep breath, he lets it slowly back out and watches the candle flutter, then licks his lips to wet them.

“Fleamont Potter,” he starts, voice already thickening. “Euphemia Potter. James Potter.”

He has to pause for a moment, then, his twin’s name like ash on his tongue as he struggles for the air to continue. He cannot break down yet; he has far too many names to get through for that, and if he lets himself crumble now, he is not sure he will be able to put himself back together to finish the ritual.

“Helena Ravenclaw,” he continues, because that girl, even as young as she was when he was torn away, was his niece in all but blood, and a ghost she might be, but he would never dream of leaving her out. “Rowena Ravenclaw. Helga Hufflepuff.”

He bites down harshly on his lip, struggling to hold back the building sob with just one more name to say – one name that will hurt as much as all besides James’ combined.

“Godric Gryffindor,” he chokes out, barely audible even to his own ears as his hand reaches up automatically to his amulet, twitching with the urge to yank it off and throw it away, then he realises what he’s doing and snatches his hand away, forging onwards. “I am here tonight to honour my dead. I am here tonight to welcome them home.”

A home that none of them have ever seen, that does not even feel like _home_ to Salazar himself, and that most of them will never see even through this ritual.

“I am here tonight to ease their passing –” too late, _far_ too late, “– and to ask that they, in turn –” he has no right to ask a _thing_ from them, “– ease my living.”

He pauses there, for a moment, to watch the flames and the faces flickering within: James, Mum and Dad. Their smiles are as grief-stricken as he feels, though his is the only face wet with tears. Briefly, he finds himself blindsided by the urge to say something outside of the bounds of the ritual, to beg for forgiveness or to tell them that he still needs them, that he didn’t mean to leave, but he catches himself in time, knowing that to step that far is a slippery slope down a dark and dangerous path.

If it were Godric before him, he does not think he would even have _tried_ to stop himself.

“Let it so be said,” he croaks finally, watching the flames shrink back, the faces of his loved ones gone within an instant, leaving him alone in the darkness once more.

Perhaps, next year, he should perform the ritual with Quirinus at Potter Manor. It will be another year or two before he’s entirely ready to move in – certainly, at least that long before he thinks that Harry will be ready to leave the Dursleys behind – but he could always make the trip and, if necessary, stay for the night.

This year, however, he is indeed alone, and not at all inclined to move. Even as the flame dies down, he continues to watch it in silence, staring at it until it is nothing more than glowing ember and then for a good while longer.

“Alright,” Justin Finch-Fletchley mutters, shaking his head and sniffing quietly as Harry eyes him in concern. “I thought Beltane was special, but… um…”

“It’s alright,” Harry assures him gently. “I know. You don’t need to give it any words.”

Nodding mutely, Justin sucks in a deep breath and lets it back out.

“Magic, huh?” he chuckles wetly after several seconds of silence. “Always has a way of taking me by surprise.”

When he’s sure that Justin is fine, Harry moves on, working his way through everyone else who has joined in on Samhain for the first time. Normally, a ritual leader needn’t be too concerned about new partakers, but with Samhain, it’s really better safe than sorry. Harry vividly remembers Uncle Salazar underlining the difference between Samhain and many other rituals, given its links to the magics of Death and the soul. It never hurts to check in on everyone – and Harry _is_ also making a point to chat to anyone who seems particularly affected, whether a first-timer or not – just to make sure that they aren’t overwhelmed or otherwise adversely impacted.

He has just finished checking on Lavender Brown, who was sniffing quietly into the shoulder of Parvati Patil when he spotted her, and is turning to make sure he hasn’t missed anyone, when he hears it.

“ _So hungry… So long… Let me kill you…_ ”

It seems to be passing right by the classroom they’re all in, and suddenly, Harry becomes very aware that several of his year-mates are about to leave, Ernie Macmillan reaching for the door just as the voice seems to get to its loudest.

“ _Rip…_ ”

“Hey, everyone,” he manages, voice a little tighter than he’d have liked. “I was just wondering if, um, anyone wanted to go through first year Potions again tomorrow?”

For a moment, the rest of the room shares glances, apparently considering the idea.

“ _I smell blood…_ ”

The voice sounds horribly delighted, but it’s getting fainter, definitely further away.

“ _I SMELL BLOOD!_ ”

Trying not to flinch too obviously, Harry waits.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Justin offers quietly, nodding with a small smile. “Are you going to wow us all with your Potions expertise, Harry?”

Awkwardly, Harry shrugs and laughs.

“Something like that, yeah,” he covers, earning himself a grin from Justin. “Cool – anyone else, just say when you turn up, then? If we use the whole session, I reckon we can get through about a third of the content.”

The voice is gone, Harry notes to his relief, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything good – not with the things it was saying. If it _is_ real – if he’s not going insane – then there could be something very bad around the corner, both figuratively _and_ literally, at that.

Still, there’s nothing to do but follow his friends out of the classroom, hesitating only to make sure that no one has left something behind – they’ll be back here tomorrow afternoon anyway, but that’s no reason to just leave it where it could be stolen or destroyed by Peeves – before continuing out of the room and closing the door gently behind. It’s just as he’s starting down the corridor, however, that he starts to hear the exclamations of shock echoing through the castle, a chorus of horrified voices which fade suddenly to silence, seemingly a floor or two below.

“What…?” Padma starts cautiously, glancing around at the rest of the year with worry in her eyes, and Harry feels his stomach drop.

“Let’s go see!” someone – he doesn’t see who – calls. “Maybe there’s a duel!”

There’s not a duel. Harry almost wishes there were, because that, at least, would definitely _not_ be caused by some sort of mysterious whisper creeping its way through the castle.

What there is, is a large puddle of water on the floor, the caretaker’s cat frozen nearby, and blood still drying on the walls, painted in large, menacing letters:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.  
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

_Because that doesn’t sound ominous at all._

“Oh, _Merlin_ …” Hermione whispers next to him, one hand rising to her mouth as she stares down, and before Harry has time to think better of it, he’s tugging at her sleeve, slipping backwards through the crowd – the other students part almost absent-mindedly for them, apparently transfixed by the scene – to find an empty classroom. “Harry, what…?”

“I’ve been hearing a voice,” Harry announces bluntly, not giving himself a moment to stall or even prepare himself for the admission, in case he loses his nerve. “This really… _creepy_ voice, which no one else seems to be able to hear. Like something invisible just moving through the castle. I’ve only heard it three times, but each time, it’s talked about killing, and – and… Well, I was sure it was passing _right_ by the classroom we were in for Samhain. That’s why I brought up the study group – so no one would leave while it was out there. And it moved on, but I think – I think –”

It’s a little hard to breathe and he can’t meet her eyes, but he forces himself onwards anyway.

“I think it’s connected to _that_ – what we just saw,” he confesses, gesturing out of the door in the direction of the still-present crowd of students. “Or I’m going mad. And I don’t know which option I like least.”

Hermione swallows, staring at him with wide eyes, then nods slowly, gaze flicking over his face.

“And no one else can hear it?” she whispers.

“I don’t think so,” he tells her. “Unless – just now…?”

She shakes her head, and he deflates at once.

“I think you should go to Professor Snape,” she declares after another moment of silent consideration. “Tonight. And I’ll come with you, alright? But you need to tell someone about this, whether it’s real or…”

She trails off, swallowing, and glances away. Harry finds himself rather glad that she didn’t finish her sentence, because he’s not sure he wants to hear what she’d have said, as much as he knows that this being a figment of his imagination is a scarily real possibility. After all, isn’t hearing voices supposed to be one of the first signs of madness?

“Alright,” he agrees, to distract himself from those thoughts. “All the teachers will probably come to see what’s going on, so…”

Nodding, she offers him a small smile and reaches out to squeeze his hand, even as it occurs vaguely to Harry that she was probably not the obvious choice to tell about this – after all, Dudley was right in front of him, too – and yet, somehow, she _was_. She has become his confidant, especially with the problems he and Dudley had last year, and he hopes that, if she ever needed it, she’d feel she could come to him, too.

“Let’s go,” he tells her instead of voicing those thoughts aloud. “Sooner I get this over with, I guess…”

It isn’t that hard to find Professor Snape, really. The Potions Master is standing with the rest of the professors, gathered around the still-unmoving cat in the now student-less corridor as the caretaker – Filch, Harry thinks his name might be – wails dramatically nearby and shouts for the identification and punishment of the culprit. Unfortunately, Dumbledore is also very much present, stroking his beard and peering closely at the cat as he appears to think deeply.

_Well_ , Harry tells himself, drawing in a deep breath, _nothing else for it._

As he shifts carefully closer, he’s more than a little grateful for Hermione’s presence, a welcome comfort and support for him with every step he takes towards the Light Lord – and towards finding out that he really is going insane.

“Professor Snape?” he whispers as soon as he’s close enough, shifting in discomfort when Professor McGonagall twists to frown at him.

“Not now, Mr Potter. Please return to your dormitory – and you, Miss Granger.”

Harry shakes his head, swallowing.

“It’s important. I need to talk to Professor Snape.”

“Mr Potter –”

“I’m sure you have everything here under control, Minerva,” Professor Snape assures her smoothly, sharing a brief glance with the Transfiguration Mistress that has her turning back to the cat with a short nod. “Mr Potter, Miss Granger…?”

Nervously, Harry steps away from the rest of the teachers, relieved when Professor Snape takes the hint and follows them some way down the corridor to listen in silence as Harry explains everything that he told Hermione just five minutes ago. While Harry speaks, Professor Snape waits, arms folded across his chest with a furrow deepening in his brow, his lips thinning gradually, and when Harry has finished, he draws his wand, waves it in a complicated pattern over Harry’s head, and nods.

“As I suspected, Mr Potter, you show no signs of psychosis, which…” he pauses, frowning, to glance around, “Leads me to believe that the voice you are hearing is not a product of insanity.”

“So,” Harry begins, then has to stop and swallow when the word comes out as little more than a croak. “So it could be to do with…?”

Professor Snape’s frown darkens further.

“Potentially,” the man allows. “You said you’ve heard it on two other occasions?”

“Yes,” Harry agrees, hesitating briefly before adding, “But it sounded different tonight. At the end, it was… I don’t know, it was like it got excited or something.”

“Excited,” Professor Snape echoes slowly. “I see.”

Is that response meant to be good or bad? Uncertain, Harry glances at Hermione to find her chewing her lip as she stares back at him, clearly as clueless as he is.

“Mr Potter, if you hear this voice again, I would like you to come and tell me instantly – provided that you do not feel it would put yourself in any danger to do so – and preferably, with a friend.”

It’s all Harry can do to nod. Professor Snape _does_ think the voice could be dangerous, apparently, and Harry doesn’t know how to feel about that; could he have stopped this if he’d mentioned it earlier?

Probably not, he recognises – given that they don’t know for certain if it _is_ connected, they wouldn’t have had any idea that it would cause this if he _had_ mentioned it earlier, and certainly, they don’t seem to have any way of stopping this from happening again, yet.

“Yes, Sir,” he whispers, earning a nod from Professor Snape.

“Ten points to Ravenclaw for coming forwards with this,” the Potions Master tells him, then smirks and glances at Hermione, “And ten to Slytherin for offering support to a friend.”

Harry just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes at that, fully aware that Professor Snape is taking the chance to show some unabashed favouritism, but appreciates the mood-lifter it provides.

“Now, off to bed, the both of you.”

“Yes, Sir. Goodnight, Sir.”

Hermione echoes his words, glancing over at the cat with just a hint of horrified curiosity, and Professor Snape’s lips seem to twitch ever so subtly upward.

“Goodnight, Mr Potter, Miss Granger.”

Harry wakes the next morning feeling lighter than he thinks he has in weeks. In part, it’s probably the after-effects of Samhain, but really, there’s no denying the relief of knowing that he isn’t going insane – at least, not that Professor Snape can detect, and Harry trusts Professor Snape – even if there _is_ now a potentially murderous, unknown _thing_ on the loose that only Harry can hear. What if it comes after Harry because of that?

Well, as long as Harry doesn’t let it _know_ that Harry can hear it, he should be fine.

Probably.

Perhaps he should send a letter to Uncle Salazar, just in case; this is really the sort of thing that his uncle would appreciate knowing about, after all, and it’s probably better to worry him a little now than to risk worrying him a lot later, if something does happen. Then again, maybe it’s _best_ to let Uncle Salazar worry about himself for now, because Harry has his friends and Professor Snape to support him, and he’s certainly more concerned about Uncle Salazar than he is about himself.

Yes, Uncle Salazar would understand.

Satisfied with his decision, Harry hops out of bed, stretching then groaning quietly when the action pulls at his aching muscles. Working with Cho is brilliant – being on the Quidditch team in general is amazing, in fact – but there’s no denying that the training works muscles that Harry has never realised he had, and certainly hasn’t put any focus into strengthening before. It’s a good kind of pain, though – a pain that assures him of both the progress he’s making and the hard work he’s putting in to get there – and most importantly for now, it’s the kind of pain that tells him he needs to get to breakfast to get some carbs and protein down.

The entire school is buzzing with whispers about the cat – “Petrified,” an older Ravenclaw nods sagely, close to where Harry sits with his year-mates in the Great Hall – and who this mysterious ‘Heir’ could be. The Heir of what, or whom? Are they a student? A teacher? An intruder? Did they attack the cat directly, or did they have something else to do it?

“I swear,” a Fifth-Year sighs right next to their group, shaking her head at them, “This _never_ happened before you lot arrived.”

Harry ignores the First-Years now staring at them with wide-eyed curiosity and frowns.

“Never?” he asks cautiously, catching Terry’s eye across the table as Padma leans in from his right side to listen.

“I don’t remember a _single_ incident in my first three years,” the Fifth-Year explains, apparently slightly surprised to be the centre of attention, though her confusion clears quickly to amused comprehension. “Let me guess – you think it actually _has_ got something to do with one of you lot.”

“Harry, I blame you,” Tony throws out quickly, Harry rearranging his features into an offended pout that has them all laughing.

It’s… Well, it’s a thought, though, isn’t it? Harry hadn’t before considered that the reason that this is all happening now is connected to the school’s new arrivals, but most probably, it is. It seems reasonable that the mysterious Heir would have arrived at Hogwarts this year, which would explain why Harry never heard the creepy voice last year; it could well be a First-Year, for all he knows.

When the Fifth-Year turns back to her own friends, Harry voices the thought quietly, and is met with ten considering frowns.

“What if…” Oliver starts cautiously, glancing around before leaning in and lowering his voice to a whisper. “What if it’s _not_ a First-Year, but it _is_ someone who’s just arrived? Don’t look, don’t look!”

All heads swivel instantly away from Lockhart.

“Him being an idiot could be a cover,” Lisa muses. “A _smart_ cover, in fact. He was supposed to be a Ravenclaw, wasn’t he? And if he can keep us all defenceless…”

“Then we can’t fight back against him!” Oliver concludes, nodding frantically. “But how do we _know_?”

“We see if we can make him react to it,” Mandy fills in, firm and sure. “Next lesson with him, we ask lots of questions – try to flatter him, make it seem like we’re asking how he’d defeat it or something. See what he says and does when the subject is actually raised _to_ him.”

A matter of days later, Harry sits at the back of the Defence classroom, knee bouncing in silent anticipation. For once, he’s actually looking forward to this class, and he’s fairly sure that Hermione and Draco have noticed, if the disturbed looks they’re shooting him are anything to go by; he forgot to mention the theory he and his housemates have developed to his closer friends, but he can always explain after lesson.

“Good morning, boys and girls!” Lockhart chirps, bounding out of his office, and alright, that particular phrasing is as much a mood-killer as ever. “Today, I thought we could –”

“Professor Lockhart, Sir?” Mandy cuts in, hand straight up in the air as she bats her eyelashes in her best impression of a love-sick teenager; she had the rest of their small section of the common room roaring with laughter over her ‘practice’ yesterday.

“Er…” Lockhart flounders, clearly unused to being interrupted, then flashes a charming smile. “Yes, Miss, ah… Brocklehurst?”

“I was just… Well, I was wondering what you might be able to tell us about the Chamber of Secrets – I’m sure you must have heard _a lot_ of interesting things on your travels, after all?”

Lockhart blinks, glancing around at their faces, and Harry is fully aware that the Slytherins have now perked up just as much as Harry and his housemates, presenting a picture of what is probably the most attentive class Lockhart has had in a month, since all but the most dedicated of fans cottoned on to his probable ruse.

“Well – I mean…” he blusters. “The chamber is a… Well, young lady, it’s a very serious topic, and I’m sure none of you want to…”

Harry leans forward, watching him closely for any tells.

“But what if one of us is attacked?” Padma asks, injecting a note of desperation into her tone. “Professor, you’re _clearly_ the best person to teach us how to defend ourselves…”

“Well,” Lockhart starts at once, some of his confidence returning, “I suppose you’re right about that… The thing is, unless I know _what_ the monster is, it becomes a little, well… difficult, really. So many different tactics, you know…”

“So you wouldn’t be able to fight it?” Harry asks, falsely disappointed as he widens his eyes in ‘shock’.

“Now, now, Harry…” Lockhart chides, waggling a finger and grinning roguishly. “I didn’t say that, now, did I? No need to go around scaring anyone.”

“But if you don’t know what it is…?”

“Well, I’d find out when I fought it, wouldn’t I?” Lockhart counters with a purposefully casual shrug. “Finding out before would take the fun out of it – after all, who doesn’t love a good surprise? Now, I think that’s all we have time for on _that_ discussion; we really have _much_ to get through today. I’ll need a volunteer for a demonstration…?”

Either Lockhart’s a brilliant actor, or he really is just blustering his way through his usual pretence of expertise and bravado rolled into one nauseating combination, Harry decides as he prepares to face up to the now-familiar routine of Defence classes. If the persona _is_ entirely fake, then it will probably be very difficult to spot.

“Harry, thank you! Do come on up!”

_Here we go again…_

“What do we think?” Terry asks as soon as they step out of the classroom, glancing around at them all, and Harry can only offer a shrug.

“It’s hard to tell,” Lisa concedes, “But I don’t think it’s him. It occurred to me – he’d have to have kept this act up for _so_ many years, just on the off-chance that he’d get to Hogwarts at some point. It’s the sort of plot you’d find in a mediocre novel, I guess.”

“First-Year it is, then,” Oliver snorts. “Do we just sit them down and interrogate them one by one?”

As Harry bites back a grin, Hermione leans in and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“What’s this?” she hedges curiously, Harry spinning to face her at once.

“We thought Lockhart might be, you know, the Heir,” he admits freely. “Seeing as it’s only started up this year and he’s a new arrival. But…”

“Unlikely,” she sighs, shaking her head as her lips purse. “I thought you were just fishing for any information you could find; I’ve looked through the library and all copies of Hogwarts: A History have been taken out. I was going to suggest we ask Binns, next.”

“That’s a good idea,” Michael agrees thoughtfully.

“Portraits might know something, too,” Isobel adds, gesturing around at the walls of the corridor and the main paintings covering them. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were paintings of the Founders _themselves_ here somewhere.”

Whatever comes after that, Harry doesn’t hear it; he has stopped paying any attention to the conversation, stuck on that last comment as he is. How could he be so stupid? If there’s one place he might stand a _chance_ of finding a portrait of Godric, it would be here, right under his nose – or at the very least… under _Neville’s_ nose.

“Sorry,” he mumbles to his friends and housemates, already turning away from them all. “Just realised I have to do something…”

He starts off without another word, striding down the corridor as quickly as his legs will carry him and ignoring Hermione’s confused ‘Harry?’ only to be drawn to a halt by her hand on his arm, her eyes wide with worry as she looks him over.

“Did you hear the voice?” she whispers urgently, and for a moment, Harry can only blink in confusion, then the realisation dawns of what his departure must have seemed like.

“Oh! No,” he assures her. “It’s just… It’s a personal thing. My uncle’s going through some things, and I just thought of something that might help him.”

“Oh,” she echoes slowly, hand slipping away from his arm as her brow creases. “Is – Is everything alright? Is he…?”

“He’ll be fine,” Harry tells her, forcing a smile, and doesn’t add the silent ‘I hope,’ that floats through the back of his mind.

“Alright,” she concedes as she takes a step back and offers a smile of her own. “Just let me know if you want to talk, alright?”

Nodding, Harry turns and continues on his way, racking his brain to try and remember where Neville would have been last lesson; he’d prefer to catch the other boy alone, if possible, so the best time to do that is _before_ Neville gets to the Great Hall for lunch. Of course, he’ll still have to persuade Dudley to leave them alone, because his cousin will likely be _very_ suspicious on hearing the topic of Harry’s enquiry, but he can deal with that once he’s found Neville.

Luckily, it isn’t that hard to do, because he encounters Dudley first, already coming in from the greenhouses without their friend.

“He stayed back to talk to Professor Sprout,” Dudley offers helpfully, as soon as Harry explains that he’s looking for Neville. “Told me to go on ahead. D’you want me to…?”

“No, you go on,” Harry assures him. “It’s just about the help I’m giving him with Potions.”

He hurries on down the steps beyond the castle entrance, trying to hold himself back from running, because really, what’s the rush? It’s not like there are particular time-constraints on the issue, and even if Neville _can_ tell him where he might find a portrait of Godric Gryffindor, it will probably be in the Gryffindor common room – hence asking Neville in the first place – which Harry can’t get to, and it would certainly be a while before he’d be able to get Uncle Salazar to Hogwarts to see it.

Still, this problem has been following him around for over two months now, and the thought that he might finally have a lead to follow has him bounding down the grassy slope to the greenhouses like an excited five-year-old, slowing only when he spots Neville emerging from Greenhouse Three.

“Nev!” he calls as he walks the rest of the way down to join his friend. “How was Herbology?”

“It was good, thanks!” Neville exclaims, beaming just as he tends to when the subject of Herbology is raised. “The mandrakes are _really_ coming along well – I was just looking at them with Professor Sprout.”

Harry listens in patient silence as Neville rambles on for most of the walk back up to the castle, curbing his own enthusiasm in favour of letting his friend flourish for a little while. Neville’s ability in Herbology was unrivalled even before he got a wand of his own and, much to the frustration of some of Harry’s housemates, the divide has only grown since; it’s nice to just let him _talk_ about it sometimes, settling into the comfort of hearing someone who is clearly passionate on a subject share it so eagerly.

“…so I’ll be going back on Sunday, I think,” Neville finishes, satisfaction in his voice. “How was… Defence, was it?”

The trepidation in the question has Harry snorting as he shrugs, though he quells his amusement quickly to explain the plan he and his fellow Ravenclaws had come up with and the consequential conclusions they made.

“So we’re not really anywhere with that,” he sighs, shrugging. “But we’ve got leads, and… I was just wondering, given we were talking about portraits – do you know if there’s one of Godric Gryffindor anywhere?”

“Godric Gryffindor?” Neville asks, bemused, and squints at Harry in obvious puzzlement.

“Yes,” Harry confirms quickly, before the other boy has a chance to question it. “I’m hardly going to ask you about the other Founders, am I?”

“I suppose,” Neville concedes, to his relief. “I’ll have a look. I don’t remember seeing one, but I’ve never paid much attention. I guess there’s a good chance there’ll be one…”

“Great!” Harry grins, then claps his hands together eagerly as they reach the castle entrance. “Lunch time!”

As it happens, the Ravenclaws have History of Magic with the Slytherins – as always – that very afternoon, and so it is that, much like Defence, Harry settles into his usual spot with a touch more anticipation than normal, knee bouncing under the table while he waits for the rest of the class to settle. By now, he’s fairly sure that everyone knows the plan, and, although Hermione has already volunteered – if somewhat accidentally – to take the lead, they all seem equally eager to jump in if Hermione can’t get Professor Binns talking on her own.

They needn’t have worried.

Five minutes into Professor Binns’ lecture, Hermione’s hand shoots upwards, the movement so incredibly obvious that even the ghost at the front of the classroom couldn’t miss it. He trails off, mid-speech, and stares at her for several seconds, spectral face fixed with shock, then speaks.

“Miss… er…?”

“Granger, Professor,” Hermione tells him smoothly. “I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

The whole room seems to hold a collective breath as Professor Binns blinks at her and frowns.

“My subject is _History_ of Magic,” he tells her dryly, apparently unimpressed. “I deal with _facts_ , not myths and legends.”

Turning back to his notes, he draws in a breath and clears his throat as if to continue, but Hermione is already talking again.

“Sir, wouldn’t you agree that legends have _some_ basis in fact?”

By the look on Professor Binns’ face, Harry thinks it’s fairly safe to assume that no student has ever interrupted him before, but the important thing, he supposes, is that it’s shock displayed rather than hostility. That gives them a chance of getting the answers they want.

“Well…” The ghost seems to hesitate, peering around at the entire class watching with undisguised interest. “I suppose you could argue as much…”

For a moment longer, he teeters in indecision.

“Very well. The Chamber of Secrets – yes, let me see…”

Harry perks up, drawing in a breath along with a good half of his classmates as Hermione beams, Pansy Parkinson reaching over to pat her shoulder in silent congratulations.

The next ten minutes are a lesson in what they already know the history books say – not, though, the truth – plus some extra, which Harry struggles to believe any more than the idea of Uncle Salazar disliking muggleborns or arguing with Godric and the other Founders. Can Professor Binns really be saying that Uncle Salazar built a hidden room to house a monster which could at some point be released to attack students? Uncle Salazar was always committed to protecting his students – _all_ students, regardless of parentage – and Harry can’t imagine he’d ever do something like that.

Really, it’s practically Uncle Salazar’s tagline that everyone deserves a chance to study magic, given that he was refused entry to Hogwarts himself at Harry’s age.

Beyond even that, Uncle Salazar never _had_ children. There’s no way he could have passed such a secret onto an Heir to then open this ‘Chamber of Secrets’, because there wouldn’t have been anyone to pass it onto.

Unfortunately, Harry realises quickly, looking around at the faces of his classmates once Professor Binns has dismissed his own words as utter nonsense and returned to lecturing, it seems that he’s the only one who doesn’t believe everything that they’ve just heard. Even worse, there’s no way he can defend Uncle Salazar’s reputation to his classmates without putting himself and his uncle in a _very_ risky position, and worse _still_ , one or two of his classmates around the room don’t seem too bothered by the idea of releasing some sort of monster to murder muggleborns. Harry thought they all got past this in their first year, with Hermione cementing her place in Slytherin so quickly. This isn’t _really_ still a problem, is it?

After dinner, when they meet up with Dudley and Neville, Harry stays quiet while Draco and Hermione fill their friends in on everything Professor Binns’ said, meeting Dudley’s eyes when no one is watching and offering a dubious frown. Dudley nods in silent agreement, his own brow creased as he listens to the tale, and as soon as Draco has finished speaking, he shakes his head.

“I don’t think it’s true,” he declares, and while Harry agrees and has been desperate to defend Uncle Salazar, the urge to bury his face in his palms has never been stronger.

_How does Dudley think he’s going to be able to defend this stance?_

“You don’t?” Neville squints. “Why not?”

“Because…” Dudley flounders; Harry takes a deep breath and jumps in to save him.

“So Slytherin helped create this school because he wanted to teach, right? Well, one, why risk the other students, and two, why create a school with three people who don’t share your beliefs if your beliefs are _so extreme_ that you’d be willing to kill children over it? It doesn’t make sense. And if he was a teacher and created a school, you’d think he’d generally be against the whole ‘killing children’ idea. _And_ , if he left the school, why would he expect his Heir to come back to release the monster? And where did he get an Heir? There’s no evidence that he ever even had kids.”

Silence falls for a moment as the rest of Harry’s friends seem to consider the idea, Dudley deflating in obvious relief.

“I don’t know about the rest,” Neville starts slowly, “But aren’t all Parselmouths supposed to be descended from him?”

“That makes no sense,” Harry argues quickly. “If it all comes from him, where did he get it from? What if he had other family who could do it? What if it’s just a thing that happens to some people – like being a Metamorphmagus? I mean, _I’m_ a Parselmouth.”

Alright, so it _is_ something of a Potter Family trait, even if it is still rare, but the Potter line isn’t descended from the (non-existent) Slytherin line – that much, Harry _knows_.

“You are?” Draco gapes, eyes wide as he seems to reassess Harry slightly. “ _Merlin_ …”

“You… You know you’d probably be better _not_ sharing that too widely, right?” Neville asks him, apparently anxious. “A lot of people aren’t so…”

“Well, I’ll just have to change their minds about it,” Harry dismisses, shrugging. “I know a lot of people don’t like it, but that’s their problem, not mine. It used to be a respected trait, until, well, a hundred years ago or something. My uncle’s a Parselmouth too, you know. It runs in the family a bit.”

If he remembers what Uncle Salazar told him correctly, then his great-grandfather was a Parselmouth as well, and so was his great-great-great-aunt.

“So we’re back to square one?” Hermione sighs, slumping. “Alright.”

Awkwardly, Harry nods. It seems that they are.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning, all (or insert similar time-related greeting based on time-zone and how long it has been since I posted this chapter)! As per usual, I hope you are well, and I'd love to hear your thoughts/opinions/criticism/etc. in the comments.

“Harry?”

Harry jumps, spinning in his chair and almost falling right out of it with the library book he has been reading still in his hands, earning a glare from Madam Pince as he struggles to right himself on finding only Neville behind him. It’s been over two weeks since they last had a lead on who the Heir might be and by now the majority of the year – which is to say, everyone who attends the study group or, in other words, everyone besides Ron Weasley, who still seems to like Harry as little as Harry likes him – has joined in on the effort, but to no avail. The lack of any information almost seems enough to make Harry jumpy, but he thinks it might actually have more to do with the distinct lack of that voice, leaving him constantly on edge and wondering when it will make a sudden reappearance.

“Neville,” he manages weakly, finally succeeding in finding balance, and forces a smile in response to Neville’s own. “Alright?”

“I’m well, thanks, Harry,” Neville replies, gaze sweeping over Harry without any attempt on Neville’s behalf to hide his concern. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine,” Harry hurries to assure him. “I was just… lost in thought, is all.”

It’s clear that Neville doesn’t believe him in the slightest, but the other boy doesn’t comment, and for that, Harry is grateful.

“I asked around about a portrait of Godric Gryffindor,” Neville tells him instead, sinking into a chair opposite him, “And I had a look around myself – no sign of any portraits. I guess they weren’t really common in those days, so maybe it’s not that big of a surprise…?”

Instantly, Harry deflates. There goes the solution to _that_ problem, apparently, which leaves him, just as with the Heir and the Chamber of Secrets debacle, back at square one. Heart sinking, he tries not to dwell on either the memory of Uncle Salazar looking so _vulnerable_ – nothing like Harry is used to – that morning before they left for Hogwarts again, or the thought that, when he returns home for Christmas, Uncle Salazar might be just as bad – or, something sinister whispers in the back of Harry’s head, _worse_.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, managing a half-hearted shrug. “Thanks, Nev.”

“No problem,” Neville responds at once, then peers more closely at him. “Are you _sure_ everything’s fine?”

Annoyingly, Harry finds that it’s just a little bit _too_ hard to meet his friend’s eyes.

“Well, there’s some sort of potentially murderous _thing_ in the school,” he offers, snorting, and doesn’t mention his worries about Uncle Salazar. “Other than that… all good. I mean, I’d be stupid not to worry _a bit_ , right?”

Too late, he remembers that no one else can hear the voice with its expressions of murderous intentions; no one else has any particular reason to expect _murder_ – though possibly the blood on the walls might provide enough of an excuse if Harry needs one.

“Right,” Neville concedes, seeming to accept Harry’s explanation without paying the slip any mind. “Have you done the Herbology homework?”

Setting his book aside, Harry runs through all the homework he has left to do at the moment.

“No,” he admits; it’s just that and Astronomy, really, which are both due next week. “D’you want to do it now?”

Luckily, the homework provides a good distraction from worrying over Uncle Salazar – only as soon as they’ve completed it, the concerns all come flooding back. Maybe Harry’s expecting too much, but his uncle has been taking longer to respond to letters and, although Uncle Salazar’s writing is no less fond and loving, the tone just seems to lack energy, somehow. Again, though, Harry could just be seeing what he expects to.

Maybe he could ask Aunt Petunia, only that, by extension, means asking Uncle Vernon as well, and he doesn’t want to risk causing Uncle Salazar any more problems than he might already have.

No, Harry decides, it will be best if he just goes back to that book to see what else he could do – and Professor Snape said he’d help as well, so everything will be fine. Uncle Salazar has managed well enough for three years; it’s hardly about to get _too_ much worse now.

Stubbornly, Harry ignores the part of him that already dreads how much worse it could become.

Severus Snape sweeps up the street with a tight jaw, barely holding back a sneer as he regards his destination, because he may be oddly fond of young Harry Potter, and Salazar Potter – or Slytherin – might be well on his way to becoming what Severus would almost dare call a friend, but the woman he’s expecting to have to talk to isn’t someone he’s seen in more than a decade, and they certainly were never on good terms to begin with. All the same, desperate times call for desperate measures and so, with Harry’s confessed worries from September cycling around in his mind and the letters he has sent yet unanswered, he finds himself here, ready to lower himself to explicitly expressing concern for another human being for the first time in longer than he cares to remember.

He’s not particularly looking forward to it and, in all honesty, he’s not sure if his trepidation comes from the idea of admitting that he cares, or from his own concerns over what he might find.

Ignoring the curious gazes of the few muggles braving this cold, biting wind, he strides up the path he needs and rings the doorbell, waiting impatiently until the door swings open to reveal a familiar face.

“Severus?” she blinks, visibly taken aback as she looks him up and down, and there’s no mistaking the hostility growing within her.

“Petunia,” he returns curtly, continuing before she can make the understandable decision to slam the door on him. “I’m here to see Salazar.”

For a moment, she hovers, indecision scrawled across her face as if in that lilac ink that Lockhart seems particularly fond of, and Severus considers stepping inside without an invitation – Harry really _did_ seem concerned about his uncle, after all, and Severus did assure the boy that he’d take care of it – but before he can make the choice, she moves aside for him, ushering him in with a press of her lips.

“He’s upstairs,” she tells him shortly. “In his bedroom. I’ll show you.”

Severus opens his mouth to agree, but something stops him, telling him that he should know what he’s getting into first, instead of barging in unprepared and potentially exacerbating the situation like some sort of fool-hardy _Gryffindor_.

“How is he?” he asks with that purpose in mind, voice lowered to ensure that Salazar will not overhear them.

Her grimace is less than promising.

“You’re only here to check on him, aren’t you?” she sighs, the last of her animosity seeming to drain from her with that realisation, and when Severus nods, she slumps a little. “He’s… How much do you…?”

 _Know_ , she doesn’t say.

“Everything,” Severus fills in flatly. “Time-travel included.”

Nodding, she bites her lip and appears to search for words.

“I believe he’s grieving for his lover,” she explains slowly, “Along with the rest of his family from that time. Possibly James and his parents as well.”

Her lips twist in the smallest sneer at the mention of Lily’s husband even as Severus twitches a little before he can repress the bitterness that rises, an extra thread of mutual understanding flashing between them for a moment.

“It _has_ been three years,” she adds, glancing up at the ceiling – presumably in Salazar’s direction, “But it only seems to be hitting him now. He only eats one meal a day, and he only really appears when he’s out on… _business_.”

There’s something more to uncover there, in the disparagement that pinches Petunia’s face, but Severus decides to leave it for the time being. At the moment, his priority is Salazar’s well-being and, from the sounds of it, he’ll have his hands rather full with that, if there’s anything he _can_ do in the first place.

“He rarely talks,” Petunia adds. “Almost like a ghost, I’d say.”

That doesn’t sound promising, Severus has to admit, but he can hardly give up before he’s seen the man.

Unfortunately, Salazar appears even worse in person than Severus imagined. His room is dark, the curtains closed and, as Severus’ eyes adjust, the first thing they catch on is a snuffed-out candle on the floor, abandoned there for some reason or another. It takes several more seconds to find Salazar himself, hunched on the floor in the darkest corner of the room, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, a bottle of firewhisky in one hand and something that Severus can’t make out in the other. He doesn’t look up when they enter, though he must surely notice the door opening, given that there are no other sources of light in the room that Severus can see.

Nodding to Petunia in curt thanks, he watches her hurry back towards the stairs, apparently relieved to get away, then turns back to the darkness of Salazar’s bedroom. Carefully, he slips inside and shuts the door, watching Salazar for any sign of a reaction; still nothing. This is going to be difficult.

“Salazar –”

“Fuck off,” Salazar rasps before he can get any further, voice as raw as if someone has taken a cheese grater to his vocal chords and left the shredded flesh to fester and scab in his throat.

He doesn’t look up.

“No,” Severus tells him flatly and, for the first time, feels the slightest bit glad that he never had the chance to dwell on Lily’s death, constantly moving on to new tasks, all dangerous in one way or another and always requiring perfect concentration.

Without that distraction, he can imagine it would have been easy to end up in Salazar’s place, and who would have come for _him_?

Salazar laughs roughly, the sound bitter and cracked and painful even to Severus’ hardened ears – or maybe he has just softened since the war, though if he has, he’s all too happy to blame Harry for it, the insolent, too-honest brat that he is.

“What is this?” the younger man asks, finally dropping his head back to squint at Severus through the blackness, and the liquid in his bottle sloshes as he waves it clumsily. “An – An _intervention_? Or are you – are you here to – to tell me you understand?”

In the back of Severus’ mind, a very small voice whispers that it could be considered somewhat surreal that Severus is standing here, trying to placate the drunken, grieving Founder of his Hogwarts house. Of course, what _isn’t_ surreal when it comes to Salazar? The twin brother of Severus’ childhood tormentor, supposedly lost to the world, now returned with fourteen years’ worth of temporarily permanent time-travel under his belt…

Severus still struggles to wrap his mind around it.

“Call it what you want,” he settles for, folding his arms to watch Salazar closely. “I’m here for Harry’s sake.”

 _That_ startles a little more of a reaction from Salazar – a series of rapid blinks, a twisting of his lips that Severus would have missed if not for his unusually good night-vision – but it’s gone in a second as Salazar laughs again.

“ _Harry_?” he snorts. “What does Harry have to do with – with –?”

The laugh bubbles over into a dry sob, Salazar’s chest heaving before he regains control of himself and falls silent.

“Harry is worried,” Severus tells him smoothly. “ _Very_ worried. He’s been much more distractible lately, and he mentioned his concerns to me himself. Regardless of who raised him, I believe he sees you as his primary caregiver –”

“Are you going to tell me he – he _needs_ me?” Salazar demands, apparently incredulous as he lifts his drink to take a swig; Severus flicks his wand, summoning the bottle before it can touch Salazar’s lips, and earns a half-hearted snarl in response, but the man doesn’t try to stand and retrieve it.

“I wasn’t planning that far ahead, but he does,” Severus returns, already expecting the noise of wordless denial that escapes Salazar’s throat.

“I’ve taught him everything he needs to know,” Salazar sneers, shaking his head, then appearing to regret it, his brow creasing as one hand lifts to rub at his temples. “He doesn’t –”

“He looks up to you,” Severus counters. “He trusts your opinion. More than that, he cares about you. If you don’t care about yourself, at least consider what you’re doing to _him_.”

Salazar’s tongue flickers out, wetting his lips, and with a flick of his hand, the bottle is back in his grasp, raised for a swig before Severus can stop him.

“He has others,” Salazar announces dully, seeming to lose his fight all at once, his entire body slumping as his head drops to rest against the wall, his gaze boring into the darkness as though fixed on some imaginary scene that Severus cannot see. “He’d be fine without me.”

Severus won’t deny that those words send a chill down his spine, but Salazar continues before he can ask exactly what _that_ was supposed to mean.

“When I – When I woke up here… I had _no one_. I lost Godric, Rowena, Helga, Helena… and then I woke up and I’d lost James, Mum, Dad… And I have _tried_ to rebuild – you think I have not? I have tried – for Harry. But the truth of the matter is, he will live a long and happy life without me, and I… Even when I say their names on Samhain, I do not see them. I have not just lost them through death, I have lost them through time. I will _never_ have them back.”

Suddenly, the candle on the floor of Salazar’s room, alone and seemingly innocent, seems to speak a whole new meaning to Severus, realisation dawning as he stares at it blankly. It must be from Samhain, never cleared away, just left to burn itself out then abandoned on the floor. For some reason, the thought disturbs him.

“So, that’s it?” he asks to distract himself from the thought. “You give up? I haven’t known you long, but even so, I never pegged you for a coward.”

It doesn’t get the rise out of Salazar that he hoped it might, just a tired shrug.

“You can’t goad me with that, Severus. Godric was the brave one, not me.”

“I thought he was foolish?” Severus hedges, trying for something – _anything_ ; he has never been overly fond of failing.

Salazar snorts, head rolling over to face Severus.

“He was everything.”

Those three simple words are laden with so much that Severus does not feel ready to unpack and yet, horrifically, he finds himself understanding the sentiment as vibrant red hair flashes before his eyes, a brilliant laugh echoing within the confines of his skull. Forcefully, he pushes such thoughts away and draws in a deep breath, recognising that he needs to wrap this up and make a tactical retreat for the time being – for his own sake, if nothing else.

Reaching out, he finds the door handle, but cannot resist hovering just a moment longer.

“Godric may have been the brave one, but I always thought you were supposed to be ambitious. Harry might live a happy life without you, but it wouldn’t be the happiest he could have – why settle for that?”

Salazar stares at him in silence, unblinking, and only draws in a breath when Severus turns to open the door.

“Keep him at Hogwarts this Yule,” the Founder of said school tells him. “And Dudley, if you can. I don’t want them seeing me like this.”

 _Perhaps_ , Severus thinks as he steps back into the light of the hallway, _that might be for the best._

He leaves the door open, just to disrupt the gloom of Salazar’s bedroom a little bit more; with any luck, the man’s internal state will reflect his external surroundings, and he’ll start to lighten up just a little.

Severus is halfway down the stairs when he hears the door swing shut, not having to look to know that no one touched it. He’ll come back, he decides, when he has some idea of how to actually help. In the meantime, he’ll just have to soothe Harry’s worries as best he can.

Only when he’s back in his office, down in the Dungeons below the main body of the school, does it occur to him that he might have done well to ask Salazar about the Chamber of Secrets. Even as he thinks it over, however, he registers that the younger man might not have been particularly forthcoming on the topic, no matter the truth of the situation.

December comes dark and cold, but with the promise of Yule soon to come and, most importantly, a weight off Harry’s shoulders; having made it through the entirety of November without hearing that voice, he can relax, and the incident with the cat is starting to look like a one-time prank. The rest of the school seems to be responding to the same unspoken trigger too, the hints of tension and nervous apprehension that dogged everyone’s footsteps for the last month dissolving into nothing overnight. Maybe Harry’s imagining it, but even the teachers seem a little less stern, easing off ever so slightly on the discipline front – though maybe that’s just anticipation of the coming holidays, rather than the lessening threat of a murderous creature hiding somewhere in the school to kill everyone.

Even when he _does_ hear the voice again and finds himself running through the dark halls of the castle during the early hours of the first Sunday of December, down to the Dungeons to knock frantically on Professor Snape’s door until the man answers and ushers him inside, nothing _terrible_ happens. He just sits and explains what he heard, panting slightly for breath as Professor Snape calls for a house elf to fetch him a glass of pumpkin juice, and once Professor Snape has everything Harry can recall about the voice written down and they’ve spent another two hours playing Chess to help Harry calm down, he escorts Harry back to the Ravenclaw common room with instructions to catch up on his sleep and not worry about breakfast or lunch, because one of his housemates will bring something up.

So, apparently, the voice isn’t connected to the attacks after all.

Or maybe, Harry registers that afternoon, walking into the study group to find everyone whispering frantically among themselves, he just slept through the discovery.

“One of the First-Years,” Lavender Brown confirms, nodding frantically. “Some boy – I don’t remember the name, but from Gryffindor. I heard his camera was _smoking_.”

“Callum?” Parvati guesses. “No – Colin.”

Even as he reels from the shock of finding out that there _has_ been an attack, Harry tries to stop his eyes from widening too obviously in recognition of the name, but he’s fairly sure he fails.

“Colin _Creevey_?” he fills in, the stares he receives from them telling him that, yes, Creevey is indeed the latest victim.

“You know him?” Lavender asks uncertainly, frowning in confusion when Harry shakes his head.

“No, he just stalked me for the first few weeks until I got fed up and accidentally yelled at him,” he admits bluntly. “I haven’t really seen him since, but he kind of… stuck in the memory.”

Parvati’s lips quirk up in slightly puzzled amusement as she nods along.

“I can see how he might…” she sighs. “Honestly, these First-Years – I’m _sure_ we weren’t as irritating as they are.”

Harry has to laugh at that, shaking his head.

“We probably were,” he points out, grinning. “I mean, maybe not _all_ of us, but it’s not like we notice them much except when they’re annoying us.”

It’s not like _anyone_ really notices the First-Years besides teachers and the other First-Years, unless they’re really standing out, Harry muses as he wanders off to start some Chemistry work sent by Hermione’s parents. They just tend to blend in, really. How easy would it be, he wonders, for one of them to slip off somewhere and unleash a deadly monster on the school? On the one hand, it’s a _First-Year_ , but on the other… It really does provide the perfect cover, because why would anyone ever suspect an eleven-year-old?

Now, Harry finds himself reminded of his previous thoughts on how the culprit could well be someone new to the school. Of course, there’s a good reason why no one would suspect an eleven-year-old, because, well, what eleven-year-old would be opening an ancient chamber and releasing a murderous beast to potentially kill people? It’s just not the kind of thing an eleven-year-old would do, even if they were capable of it.

All the same, Harry can still remember the feeling he’d had when he went after Quirrell; he wasn’t thinking that he was eleven, and he wouldn’t be able to fight someone much older and more powerful than him, and nor should he try. He was just thinking that someone needed to, and why not him? It got him all the way to Quirrell, if nothing else.

 _Will-power_ , he muses in silence as he scans over the ‘balancing equations’ worksheet to see what he has to do, _can be a powerful thing._

Perhaps it’s time to start vetting the First-Years to make sure it isn’t one of them, because if he ignores this hunch and it turns out to be correct, then he knows he’ll be kicking himself – never mind that he’d rather not see anyone else petrified, if he can help it. Before that, though, there won’t be any harm in asking Professor Snape about everything tomorrow, while they’re out collecting ingredients in the Forbidden Forest – just to make sure that the rumours are true.

They’ve been in the forest for a good hour when Harry remembers his plan to ask. Professor Snape looms over him as he carefully slices through the stem of an aconite plant – the last ingredient Harry needs for the potion he’ll be making on Wednesday – watching his technique and occasionally offering constructive criticism, always with the expectation that Harry start over with an entirely new plant – or, if Harry’s lucky, just a different part of the same one. Now, Harry knows, is _not_ the right time to bring it up, least of all because this is his fourth attempt, and on each previous go, he has made a slightly different mistake. Really, he doesn’t plan on having to repeat again.

Finally, triumphant, he stands with the plant in hand, placing it carefully into the container that Professor Snape holds out and beaming at the nod of approval he receives.

“Back to the castle, then, Mr Potter,” the Potions Master tells him, voice almost as steady as ever; Harry is fully aware that he’s only able to detect the faint note of pride because he has spent so much time around the man, but it’s still enough to introduce a slight spring to his step.

 _This_ is a good time to start asking a question or two unrelated to potion-making.

“Sir?” he starts carefully, just as the edge of the forest becomes visible through the trees. “Was Colin Creevey petrified yesterday?”

Professor Snape glances at him almost imperceptibly, then nods, the action short and sharp.

“He was found by one of the prefects not long after you came to me. Petrified, as with the cat.”

Swallowing in an attempt to rid himself of the lump in his throat, Harry manages a nod of his own, shaky and a little uncertain. This really isn’t a one-time thing. It’s actually _happening_.

“On that note,” Professor Snape continues, apparently either oblivious to or unconcerned by Harry’s internal panic – it’s all starting to seem a bit too much like last year, “You’ll be staying here over Yule this year. The victims will require Mandrake Restorative Draught to wake them and, although we currently have no mandrakes, we will be spending the extra time not only studying the theory of the draught, but moving ahead in our current schedule so that, when mandrakes do become available, you can gain some valuable experience.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest – he _needs_ to see Uncle Salazar – but thinks better of it, letting out a small sigh through his nostrils instead. Uncle Salazar will be fine without him, he tells himself; it’s not like he’d be able to do anything to help his uncle if he _did_ go home, anyway, and he’s sure that Uncle Salazar is just a little busy at the moment.

Alright, so maybe he’s not fooling himself, but this isn’t an opportunity he can pass up and, certainly, Uncle Salazar would _not_ be impressed if Harry threw it away just to see if he’s completely fine.

“What about Yule itself?” he asks quietly, because it’s a _legitimate_ concern.

“Those of us who partake in Yule and stay at the castle over that time will perform it together,” Professor Snape assures him calmly, Harry relaxing at the words. “There are often several students and professors.”

That’s something, at least. Harry doesn’t know how he’d cope without being able to celebrate Yule properly, particularly with everything else that is going on at the moment.

“If we’re celebrating Yule together…” he hedges, making the decision to lighten his own mood a little; there’s no point in getting himself down needlessly, after all, “Will you _please_ call me Harry? You did say you would this year…”

“I did,” Professor Snape concedes, sighing as he arches an exasperated eyebrow in Harry’s direction. “Very well… Harry. But _not_ in regular lessons; I will not have students believing that I might favour a Ravenclaw above my own house.”

Harry has to laugh aloud at that, internally delighted that Professor Snape might think highly enough of him to not only make a joke in Harry’s presence, but to make one at his own expense. Beyond that, he has to admit that he’s absolutely ecstatic that Professor Snape would actually _agree_ to call him by his first name – which Harry has never heard him do for another student beside Draco, who Harry is fairly sure is Professor Snape’s godson or something like that.

So really, beside the deadly monster in the school, not being able to go home for Yule and his incessant worry over Uncle Salazar, Harry has to admit that life is going quite alright.

“ _Duelling_ club?” Tony reads aloud, brow creasing as he scans over the flyer on the House noticeboard, and Harry twists to see the rest of his housemates looking as bemused as he feels. “Starts Tuesday 15th December – that’s tonight… Do we go?”

“Well, it sounds quite useful in the current situation,” Isobel reasons, “And I, for one, would quite like to learn how to duel anyway. Do you think Professor Flitwick will be running it?”

“Probably,” Stephen replies with a shrug, eyes still fixed on the paper as his lips twist thoughtfully. “He _was_ a Duelling Champion once, after all.”

“What if it’s for older students, though?” Padma asks, audibly nervous. “We could turn up and have absolutely _no_ clue…”

Harry pays them little mind, scanning over the words again as he wonders whether he’ll actually learn anything that Uncle Salazar hasn’t already taught him. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?

“I’m going,” he announces firmly. “Might as well see what it’s about, right?”

So it is that, at eight o’clock, the majority of the year – no, the _entirety_ , Harry realises, catching sight of a flash of red hair somewhere to the left of him – turns out at the Great Hall, joining what seems to be most of the rest of the school, all abuzz with excited chatter. Harry stares around at the thronging students with a faint sense of trepidation – there’s so _many_ – then beyond to the hall itself, cleared of the tables and benches to leave only a wide-open space in front of a _golden_ stage. Suddenly, he has a horrible idea about who, other than Professor Flitwick, could be…

“Gather round, gather round!” Lockhart calls, striding out onto the stage and beaming around at them all, draped in robes of sickening brightness that have Harry cringing away. “Can everyone see me? Can you all _hear_ me? Excellent!”

“Oh, _Merlin_ …” Draco moans at Harry’s side. “Why _him_?”

It’s all Harry can do to bite back a laugh.

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Duelling Club,” Lockhart continues, and Harry has to admit that, as much as he dislikes the old goat, he’s surprised that Dumbledore would agree to such an obviously moronic idea, “To train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourself as I have done on countless occasions – for full details, see my published works.”

Dudley retches quietly, earning a small round of giggles from their surrounding year-mates.

“Now, allow me to introduce my assistant… Professor Snape!”

At that, Harry perks up, the crowd around him seeming to rustle at the sight of Professor Snape’s unamused expression; Lockhart appears blissfully unaware of exactly what he has just led himself into, but perhaps, Harry considers, Professor Snape will go easy on him.

“He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself –” _or maybe not_ , “– and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry – you’ll still have your Potions Master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

Harry watches Professor Snape’s lip curl, struggling to hide his amusement at the thought of Lockhart _ever_ being able to pose a threat to the Potions professor. Honestly, he’s just about buzzing in anticipation of what Professor Snape might do.

“C’mon, Sir,” he mutters under his breath, Neville eyeing him in mild confusion.

“Which one?” his friend asks uncertainly.

“Professor Snape,” Harry clarifies hurriedly.

Nodding slowly, Neville turns back to watch the two adults on the stage, now ready to start the duel, and Harry remembers that Neville doesn’t get on brilliantly well with Professor Snape, even if their relationship has improved dramatically since Neville’s performance in Potions rocketed upwards in quality. Still, he’s fairly sure that Neville doesn’t fault him for wanting to see Lockhart beat into the ground.

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart declares, even as Harry reflects faintly that, outside of an official duelling situation, all of this preparation would be really rather pointless, and quite possibly deadly; while he understands and respects the point of it for an _official_ duel, he hoped this might be more helpful for fighting unexpected threats in line with the current situation. “On the count of three, we will cast our fast spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

Oh, how Harry wishes that weren’t the case. If Professor Snape could _at least_ leave him in the hospital wing for a month or two, then it would make Harry’s life so much less stressful.

“One, two, three –”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Professor Snape snaps, Harry blinking in surprise at the decision to not go non-verbal, though he supposes that, for a demonstration, it’s probably better to let everyone hear the spells; Harry wouldn’t have recognised the spell on sight, certainly, if not for Uncle Salazar’s teaching over the summer.

A moment later, he realises that Lockhart hasn’t cast anything in return, and Professor Snape hasn’t bothered casting another spell. Are they really slowing down the duel just to let people see it?

 _No_ , he realises when he cranes his neck to get a glimpse of Lockhart, _They’re not._

Lockhart lies sprawled on the floor several metres from the stage, apparently having hit the wall and crumpled to a heap at the bottom, his wand nowhere in sight. Desperately, Harry tries to hold back his grin, but it’s really rather impossible, especially when he glances back to Professor Snape to see the self-satisfied smirk adorning the features of the Potions Master.

Unfortunately, Lockhart is back on his feet in under a minute, stumbling unsteadily back towards the stage.

“I’ve got his wand,” Lavender Brown whispers nearby, glancing around at her friends. “Do I give it to him?”

Harry hesitates, knowing that she wasn’t really talking to him, but can’t resist jumping in.

“Give it here,” he mutters with a grin, taking it and handing it to Draco. “Pass it on!”

When he turns back to the stage, Professor Snape is watching them and smirking, clearly having seen and heard everything and happy not to say a word about it.

“Well… There you have it!” Lockhart pants out, shaking his head as if to clear it. “That was the Disarming Charm – as you see, I’ve lost my wand…”

He looks around for a moment, bemused, then offers a slightly shaky beam to them all.

“If anyone spots it, that would be…”

The room ripples with near-silent laughter from those in-the-know, which Harry is pleased to note now seems to be the majority of the room; it must have got most of the way through the crowd by now, then.

“Yes, anyway – an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind me saying so… Well,” he chuckles, winking at the audience, “It was _very_ obvious what you were about to do. If I had _wanted_ to stop you, it would have been only too easy. However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…”

Professor Snape’s scowl is utterly deadly and, finally, Lockhart himself seems to notice, moving on hurriedly with a weak chuckle.

“Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me…”

Harry finds himself paired with Dudley, offering his cousin a small grin which only earns him a fond eye-roll.

“Don’t murder me, Haz?” Dudley requests.

“Wouldn’t _dream_ of it,” Harry tells him innocently, bending at the waist with a deep and entirely unnecessary flourish when Lockhart calls for them to bow, then makes a show of straightening up, staggering backwards as though hit by some imaginary spell, and dropping his wand.

Flushing red, Dudley tries to stifle his laughter, having to slap a hand over his mouth within seconds as his eyes water; the object of Harry’s mockery continues on, utterly oblivious.

“Wands at the ready!”

Harry scoops up his wand quickly as Dudley calms, waiting impatiently through the rest of Lockhart’s instructions – disarming only, apparently.

“One, two, three –”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Harry shouts, leaning over to catch Dudley’s wand deftly and returning it to his cousin with a small grin as Dudley huffs and rolls his eyes. “Go on, you do it.”

“What, when you want to let me?” Dudley fires back, but raises his returned wand anyway. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Watching his wand fly through the air, Harry bites back the urge to admit that he let it go as soon as he felt a tug. It will come with time, and Dudley doesn’t have the previous experience that Harry does.

With a sigh, he glances around at the rest of the room and blinks in shock at the carnage, struggling to reconcile ‘ _only_ to disarm them’ with the obvious variation in jinxes unfolding across the rest of the room. Clearly, some of the students have been paired with people they really _shouldn’t_ have been, either because they’re too antagonistic, or they’re too close and have decided to mess around instead.

“ _Merlin_!” Neville exclaims nearby, accepting his wand from Draco with a sheepish shrug. “What are _they_ doing?”

He indicates some pair or another, but Harry doesn’t bother to work out which one he’s referring to, because really, that question applies to a good majority of them. Somewhere in the background, he’s vaguely aware of Lockhart shouting, but it is, of course, Professor Snape who takes charge, stopping the action in the hall with one explosive bang and a shower of white sparks before reversing the hexes with a sweeping ‘ _Finite Incantatem_ ’ and, in one notable case, separating two older students with a gentler version of the Blasting Curse.

“Perhaps it would be conducive to first teach the students how to _block_ offensive spells,” he offers dryly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow in Lockhart’s direction.

“Yes, yes,” Lockhart agrees, looking distinctly harried as he glances around at them all. “Well, then, perhaps some volunteers? Yes, well volunteered, Harry!”

Rolling his eyes, Harry tries not to groan too audibly.

“And perhaps… Mr Weasley?”

 _Anyone but him_ , Harry begs internally, but it’s too late; Weasley is already clambering up onto the stage, shooting Harry a spiteful glare. There’s nothing for it, apparently, but to show him up.

Sighing loudly, he trudges his way to the front just as he would in class and hauls himself slowly up onto the stage, flopping face-first onto it like a freshly-caught trout and lying still for a moment before pushing himself up and dusting off his clothing, to giggles from his classmates.

“Now, Harry,” Lockhart declares, as seemingly oblivious to Harry’s reluctance as ever, “When Mr Weasley points his wand at you, you raise yours, like so, and do _this_.”

The ludicrous squiggle he draws in the air looks even funnier than it would have with a wand, but certainly no more useful.

“Or I could just use the Shield Charm?” Harry mutters, which he knows is Fifth-Year material, but Uncle Salazar taught him it over the summer – the very first thing he learnt, in fact, after Uncle Salazar was sure he had the Stunning and Disarming Charms down.

Lockhart ignores him. Weasley glares at him.

“One, two, three –”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Weasley shouts, face screwed up in a vicious scowl.

“ _Protego_!” Harry calls at exactly the same time, staggering a little with the force of Weasley’s spell hitting his shield, but it doesn’t go through, to his relief. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

The shield gone, his returning spell hits Weasley square on, and Harry steps back quickly to intercept the trajectory his opponent’s wand.

“Yes, very good, very good,” Lockhart tells him cheerfully, “But that spell isn’t very accessible for most students, Harry – you should know better than to show off –”

“On the contrary,” Professor Snape drawls, “I would suggest that the rest of the students in this room spend the remainder of this session learning to cast the Shield Charm if they cannot already. It is, after all, invaluable, and with enough work, they will grasp it soon enough. Ten points to Ravenclaw for quick thinking.”

Harry beams, ignoring Weasley’s glare as the redhead storms past and snatches his wand from Harry’s hand on the way. The praise is brilliant on its own, but with Lockhart’s face twisting with the faintest hint of restrained irritation at being defied, Harry isn’t sure this could have gone much better.

Really, it’s a good way to end the term, but unfortunately the term isn’t done with _him_ yet. It’s the very next evening that Harry is standing over his cauldron, concentrating fiercely on his potion and just reaching for a knife to dice the aconite stem when he hears it.

“ _Rip… Kill… Come to me…_ ”

Instantly, he grabs his wand and extinguishes the flames beneath his cauldron, backing away from it as he turns to Professor Snape with wide eyes, heart pounding in his chest.

“ _Let me kill you…_ ”

“The – The voice,” he explains quickly, because Professor Snape does _not_ look impressed with his actions. “Up – Up there, somewhere.”

He waves a hand at the ceiling.

“Getting further away,” he adds nervously as Professor Snape draws his own wand. “I – Um, it doesn’t sound like it’s –”

“ _Yes, I will kill you… I WILL RIP YOU!_ ”

“No, it’s found someone,” he announces shakily. “It says it’s going to kill them, Sir, I –”

Professor Snape swears, rushing for the door, and Harry watches him go with sickness rising in his throat.

“Stay here, Harry,” the Potions Master tells him. “I will return – lock the door and do not open it for anyone other than myself.”

Harry doesn’t know how long he sits and waits in the end, listening for the voice again but hearing nothing at all. Is someone dead? Has the monster actually _killed_ someone? Maybe if he’d been clearer, if he’d been able to work out where it was when he heard it, Professor Snape could have got there quicker. Could someone now be dead because of _him_?

Raising a shaking hand, he chews anxiously at his fingernails and tries not to think about that; he doesn’t know if anyone _is_ dead, and even if there has been a death, Professor Snape would probably never have got to them in time, no matter how quickly or calmly Harry reacted. There’s certainly no point in blaming himself for any of this.

A knock on the door makes him jump, and he almost falls off the chair that he’s been sitting on, scrambling to steady himself then rising cautiously and tiptoeing his way over to the door.

“Harry?” Professor Snape calls, relief coursing instantly through Harry. “It’s Professor Snape.”

“Sir…” he breathes, opening the door. “Is everything…?”

“In future,” Professor Snape starts, in lieu of answering, “If I tell you not to let anyone besides myself in, ask me a question that no one else is likely to know the answer to in order to determine that I am indeed who I say I am. That may be about a past interaction between the two of us, or perhaps some knowledge that potential opponents are unlikely to possess, such as your uncle’s past.”

Slowly, Harry nods as he processes that idea, then paranoia strikes: _what if this_ isn’t _Professor Snape?_

“And of course,” Professor Snape adds, a hint of a wry smile twisting his lips, “I would tell you that your uncle is Salazar Slytherin, which I discovered just before he took the Philosopher’s Stone from Hogwarts. You can, therefore, leave your wand in your pocket for the time being.”

Flushing, Harry loosens his grip on his wand.

“Sorry, Sir,” he mutters.

“No need to apologise, Harry,” Professor Snape tells him firmly. “It was certainly the right reaction. For now, however, you should come with me. Your cousin has been petrified.”

Harry’s heart drops down through his stomach and keeps on going.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to start this chapter with an apology not only for Dudley, but... Well, I've upheld my no-spoiler policy through replying to your comments over the last week; I can hold on a bit longer.
> 
> As ever, I hope to hear your thoughts!

Cold wind rustles through frozen trees, whistling its way between scraps of rough bark and snaking around bare, leafless branches to disturb the few unfortunate creatures still awake within the frigid gloom. Perhaps, on a brighter night, the frost-soaked treetops might glisten in soft moonlight but, with the new moon abandoning the sky to merciless black, there is nothing to light even the tallest tips of the trees, never mind the forest floor far below. The very air seems to whisper its hostility, warning away travellers, and most would have listened; the man who walks among the trees, seemingly undaunted by the unforgiving blackness and biting wind, would balk at the idea of being categorised among ‘most’ of his peers – a trait he will always blame on his lover, no matter how bittersweet the thought of the other man might be these days.

Tugging his cloak a little tighter about himself, he swallows to loosen his throat and refocuses himself on his surroundings; the woods he travels through are fairy-infested, and his task is far too important to allow the risk of descent into madness, never mind that he promised, on the day of his departure little over two years ago, to return safe and sound to his friends. He does not intend to leave them to mourn himself when they are still…

Well, it would not do to lose himself in his thoughts, regardless. The forest is crawling with creatures of various murderous intents, and he does not plan on falling prey to any such threats. He has come too far and done too much to fail now, and he cannot afford to be delayed for more than a day; Samhain grows closer by the hour, and his destination is still beyond sight – not that anything is truly _in_ sight within this cursed forest.

Drawing in a deep breath, he checks his precious cargo quickly to ensure that it is still safe and secure, then continues forward, wand in one hand and the other hovering by his belt, ready to draw a more physical weapon if needed. One can never be too careful in a place like this.

Breath clouding before him, iced within a second of contact with the air – not that it is truly visible within the darkness – he moves onward, magic flared around himself at all times to sense the path ahead and detect any threats that he might not be able to hear or pinpoint the location of. This entire journey has been a peril, from start to finish, but the danger has been necessary, as much a part of the overall quest as the objects he has collected on his travels. He cannot very well be seen asking a powerful deity for an exception without having offered whatever sacrifices he can.

When, finally, he makes it to his destination, he doesn’t waste a moment, not stopping once to appreciate the clearing he has found, somehow with light enough to see and yet not giving off a visible glow from outside. He can gaze upon its strange beauty if, and only if, this works – and even then, not for long, lest he be pulled into the same trap as those who have come before him.

So it is that, without looking up, he collects the wood he needs and stacks it carefully in a small ring, his tribute in the centre – a branch of elder, wrapped within the confines of a chillingly black cloth and tied with a string which, to many an observer, would not be seen at all – atop a black stone tablet engraved with runes. Around the ring, he draws rune after rune, working through the sunrise – despite the lack of cover from the surrounding trees, no sunlight reaches the clearing floor – and beyond, until the entire clearing besides one small gap is blanketed in inscriptions, spiralling outwards in what almost seems to be a mimicry of the sun’s unseen rays.

Only then does the traveller stop, panting as he wipes away the sweat that has gathered upon his forehead despite the chill clinging to his skin. Not long now, he knows.

Not long at all.

Settling himself down cross-legged into that one small blank space left within the clearing, he sets his wand down in front of himself and presses his palms flat against the ground, searching for the land-magic to assess its state and waiting as it starts to shift and writhe, slowly rising up as it does every year until it is buzzing beneath his palms, clamouring at his senses. Only then does he reach for his wand once more and flick it to set his ring of wood alight, watching the flames crackle with blank eyes. All that is left to do now is to wait.

And wait he does. The very air around him seems to hum, crackling with energy and tugging at his attention, trying to call him away to play; he ignores it. He has another purpose here, a purpose he would not forsake for anything. The fire blazes on and he watches it in silence, not daring to think on the possibility that this might not work, because then, everything he has done will be for naught, and worse, there is nothing else he can think to do. This is all he has.

_There you are._

The rush of power that floods the clearing almost knocks the traveller back, though he steadies himself quickly and remains firm, eyes lowered in deference to the being who now appears before him, rising like a wraith from within the flames. He does not speak, knowing that, unless the deity deems him worthy, there is no way to address such a being with respect. He will not squander his chance at this for anything, no matter how long he must sit in silence; he has always been a proud man, but for this, he would stoop and bow for the rest of his days.

_No need for that, now. You have…_ impressed _me. I have been watching you for some time._

Holding his breath, the man wonders if he might now be allowed to speak, but does not dare risk it. It is not as though he has anything to say besides to voice his request.

_Do not fear, I know what it is you seek. An intriguing request – most who come to me ask for me to leave them be for all time. I have never allowed such a thing, and I think you know that. You ask something so much smaller. It bodes well for you._

This sounds promising. Hope rises and is quashed ruthlessly; as desperate as he is for this, he cannot afford to be let down.

_Yes, you have worked for this, and you know how far to push. You have sacrificed much to come this far, and I can_ feel _your need. It is oh, so strong…_

Ghostly fingers reach out then are drawn away, the being seeming to smile, though its mouth is hidden beneath its hood.

_I will grant you your request, on one condition: that you never speak of this to another mortal, besides the one you seek to bid farewell to. You will not tell your friends where you have been or what you have done. You will not tell your family – and I advise that you do start a family, or it will only lead to further heartbreak for both yourself and your loved one – in all your years of life. You have impressed me, Godric Gryffindor, and for that, Death shall reward you._

Sitting at Dudley’s bedside, Harry tries to focus on the letter in his shaking hands, but his eyes keep tracking back to his cousin’s still form. His friends are all still eating breakfast in the Great Hall, but he rushed it this morning to come and see Dudley before class, and to open this letter somewhere no one will see him if he becomes emotional.

_Dear Harry,_

_Thank you for telling us about Dudley. The school has also written to explain everything and assured us that he will be fine once they can source the medicine he needs. In the meantime, please take care of yourself and try not to spend too much time worrying about him; I know you love him and are worrying just as much as your Uncle Vernon and myself, but make sure you’re looking after yourself and keeping up with your schoolwork._

_I am disappointed to hear that you will be staying at Hogwarts this ~~Christmas~~ Winter Holiday, but I understand that this is a wonderful opportunity and hope that you can take full advantage of it. We will send presents from ourselves and Aunt Marge by owl when we can. _

_I am pleased to hear that your subjects are going well, and that you are maintaining good grades. Uncle Vernon is also very impressed by your exercise routine – I trust him to know what he’s talking about! Keep up the wonderful work, but remember that we will always love you, regardless of how well you’re doing._

_Life at home has been quiet. Aunt Marge came to visit a few days ago, but did not stay for long. We have set up our Christmas decorations, but have not decided what meat to buy for Christmas Dinner. Uncle Vernon has asked me to tell you that his teammates wish both you and Dudley a very happy Christmas – though I know, of course, that you do not celebrate Christmas, so instead, a Plentiful Yule!_

_Your loving Aunt,  
Petunia._

For several moments, Harry sits in silence, blinking back the tears that welled in his eyes from the first paragraph and trying not to dwell on the fact that there is no mention of Uncle Salazar. Of course there wouldn’t be; Uncle Salazar writes his own letters, so there’s no need. It’s just that those letters seem more delayed each and every time, and it leaves Harry reeling with the strange sense that the man is slipping away from him, sliding more quickly through his fingertips the more frantically Harry grasps for him. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him though, getting himself worked up over nothing, because Uncle Salazar has been here for over three years, and why would anything change _now_?

Certainly, Harry has more pressing things to worry about, with his cousin petrified in bed beside him. In a way, he almost feels as though Dudley is safer like this, because they have treatments for petrification, and if he’s like _this_ , then at least he’s not _dead_. That’s got to count for something, doesn’t it, when Harry’s certain that the monster’s intention is to kill?

His eyes sting suddenly, and he squeezes them tightly shut, sniffing quietly to pull back the tears again. He can’t deny that he’s scared at the moment: for Dudley, for himself, for their friends. There’s a monster in this amazing school, and no one seems to know what it is, where it’s come from, or who – if _anyone_ – is controlling it. What if there _isn’t_ anyone controlling it? What if it’s just gone wild? What if it’s _sentient_? What if there is no monster, just a person with some kind of terrible magic roaming the castle at night – magic powerful enough to hurt a _ghost_?

Unbidden, his eyes drift over to where Hufflepuff’s House ghost floats in silent stillness, misty form much darker than Harry is used to. Quickly, he turns his attention back to Dudley, skin prickling with the utter _wrongness_ of it all and the non-sensical, paranoid thought that maybe looking at the other victims could draw unwanted attention.

It could be _anyone_.

“Harry?” Hermione whispers, and he twists to blink at her as she slips into the Hospital Wing, offering a small, worried smile and looking him over with obvious concern. “Come on; we’ve got class.”

Her words are gentle, spoken softly as she settles a hand on his shoulder to ground him while he finds his feet and his composure. For several moments, he can only stare at Dudley’s motionless form, sucking in deep, stuttering breaths then letting them out, before managing a shaky nod and turning to follow her from the room. Only today and then tomorrow, and it will be the holidays. He just has to keep functioning and set his worries to the side for a few days, because Dudley will be _fine_. He’ll have a lot to catch up on when he wakes, but he’ll be fine.

Setting his shoulders, he returns Hermione’s smile and follows her from the room.

Harry’s year-mates seem to tread on eggshells around him throughout Thursday, clearly aware that he’s dealing with Dudley’s petrification, but on Friday, they start to relax, which Harry finds to be more a relief than anything. Carrying on as normally as possible allows him to keep his head on his shoulders and carry on moving, accepting that there is nothing he can do for Dudley besides make extra notes in every class so that Dudley will find it easier to catch up when he wakes. Then, before he knows it, the term is over, and most of the school is gone, back home to escape the threat of petrification and spend the Winter Holiday with their families. Harry is almost jealous but, with Dudley stuck in the Hospital Wing, he’s not sure he’d have been able to leave his cousin behind even if Professor Snape hadn’t told him to stay. Certainly, it wouldn’t have been the same.

Hermione is staying, as is Draco, so once they’ve said their farewells to Neville, discussions turn instantly to Yule.

“I believe we will be forced to partake in certain muggle traditions,” Draco tells them, a sneer twisting his lips and his words, before he glances quickly to Hermione, “No offense to you, of course.”

“None taken,” Hermione assures easily. “I grew up with them, and they _do_ mean a lot to me, but I understand where you’re coming from. I think Yule could mean more, too, if the other festivals are anything to go by – this will be my first year of it, you know? I can’t _wait_.”

Harry grins at the small bounce that erupts mid-step, a barely-restrained expression of the excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

“It’s special,” he agrees. “Very special. I haven’t celebrated Christmas since Uncle Salazar first introduced me to Yule. I mean, my aunt and uncle still insist on giving me ‘Christmas’ presents, but it’s easy enough to treat them as Yule gifts.”

Draco rolls his eyes on hearing that, visibly disgruntled.

“You’re going to have to tell me more about Yule gifts,” Hermione ventures nervously. “I’m still a little confused by the difference.”

Sharing a look with Draco, who clearly expects him to answer given that he has experience of both sides, Harry considers what to say.

“Well… A Yule gift is a small token – either something practical, like food or clothing, or something sentimental, like a carving – but it has to be _personal_. For example, if I were to give a practical gift, I might gift Draco gloves because I know he has a hole in one of them. If I were to give him something sentimental, it might be a stone I found which I thought really matched his eyes and just made me think of _him_. Usually, they’re given in person, but not always.”

Slowly, Hermione nods, but already, her brow is creasing.

“So what makes it _different_ from a Christmas present?” she presses.

“Magnitude – it’s always small,” Harry offers, shrugging. “You don’t really tend to wrap it up – there isn’t the same secrecy. I wouldn’t go around _telling_ people what I’m going to give them, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to hide it, and if I _were_ to give someone clothing, I’d ask for their measurements outright. And it _has_ to be personal. If I don’t know what to get you, I don’t just give you money. I sit and think, and maybe I make something. I might draw a picture of the animal I know you like, or play your favourite song for you, or gift you a memory, though that’s _really_ special –”

“A _memory_?” Hermione yelps. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco laughs quietly, fond amusement glinting in his eyes.

“We’ll show you at some point,” he promises, and when Hermione turns away with a huff, the blond winks at Harry.

Fortunately, Hermione’s upset doesn’t last long before she’s whirling back around to interrogate them further: about whom they’ll be giving gifts to, whom they expect to receive gifts _from_ , when one might decide that someone is important enough to give a Yule gift to without seeing them in person, how Yule itself goes, when it is… Draco takes over answering most of her questions, Harry content to wander along the shore of the Black Lake beside them and listen in silence while he watches for the Giant Squid. It’s a majestic creature, and one which Uncle Salazar seemed quite delighted to hear had made its home in the lake when Harry first mentioned it last year. Of course, it’s also somewhat terrifying, but that’s really to be expected, in Harry’s opinion. It could, if it chose to, be incredibly dangerous, and yet it is not, settling instead for a gentle temperament and a helpful nature. Harry has heard many a story of it fishing students out of the frigid, murky depths on their first night at Hogwarts, always so carefully protective.

“– Harry. Harry?”

Startling, Harry turns back to his friends to offer a sheepish half-smile, earning an exasperated sigh from Draco as Hermione nudges him gently.

“Wandered off, did we?” she teases. “We were saying we should head back to the castle.”

“Oh…”

Harry blinks up at the sky, not a cloud in sight to mar the blue expanse, and shrugs.

“I might stay out a little while longer,” he tells them, offering a reassuring smile when Hermione frowns in concern. “It’s nice out here.”

“It’s cold,” she responds pointedly. “Don’t make yourself ill. We’ll see you at dinner?”

Nodding his agreement, Harry watches the two Slytherins start back up to the castle and only turns away when they’re out of sight, looking around for a dry rock to sit himself down on. He finds one easily enough, casting a quick warming charm on it before settling himself in place to gaze out over the glassy surface of the lake, tracking the occasional ripple that disturbs its tranquillity as his breath clouds ever so gently in front of his face. It’s nice, he thinks, to have a moment just to sit in the quiet and reflect when, lately, so much seems to have been happening all around him.

It feels as though he’s been worrying too much, recently – about Uncle Salazar, about Dudley, about the monster and the voice and when it might next emerge, never mind _where_. Can Hogwarts really keep going with a threat like that in the castle? Harry suspects that not many of his fellow students have really considered that, caught up in the here-and-now, but his sessions with Professor Snape have opened his eyes to the more practical perspective of trying to teach in a school with a monster petrifying students in the dead of night. It just isn’t feasible, never mind _safe_.

There are other worries growing, too – worries that have snuck up on him more slowly; this time next year, he won’t legally be a child anymore. He’ll have responsibility, political standing, a right to _vote_ , years before most of his friends will have even a glimpse of the same. He’s not sure he’s ready – and yet, he knows he is, just as he knows that Uncle Salazar will only go through with this if Harry agrees. The moment Harry says he doesn’t want to do it, all suggestions of emancipation and taking over his Potter Lordship will go away, and yet… he _does_ want to do it. He’s just terrified that he won’t do it _well_.

He knows that Uncle Salazar has been mostly keeping the Potter seats in line in the Wizengamot, just working quietly to reverse the damage done without making a big deal of it, only occasionally reaching out to re-forge old bridges and build new ones, letting Harry take over and make his own decisions when the time comes, but that’s the point: Harry _won’t_ be able to take such a passive role. He won’t be _acting_ Lord Potter, just Lord Potter. He’ll be a target, seen as weak for his age, and he will have to make a good impression quickly. He will have to show strength before Lords and Ladies and Heads of Houses more than thrice his age and thrice that still. Yes, Uncle Salazar will be there to help him, but only behind closed doors. In the Wizengamot, as the anonymous Lord Slytherin, they cannot be seen to have associations of any kind before such things have been publicly established, and even when Uncle Salazar does not hide his identity, Harry cannot be seen to lean on his uncle, because that will just be another sign of weakness.

Really, it’s all quite nerve-wracking. Harry hasn’t even asked Uncle Salazar what _his_ plans are for the Slytherin Family, once the man can turn his full attention to it rather than looking after Harry’s heritage for him. He knows that Uncle Salazar’s own House is Grey, but from what little Uncle Salazar has said, they lean more towards the Dark than the Potters; Uncle Salazar has been tempering his own political views somewhat in teaching Harry, to ensure that Harry has the same start as he would have done had Harry’s father survived. It’s just another way through which Harry’s respect for his uncle grows, to know that Uncle Salazar has put aside all his own thoughts and feelings on their family’s previous political standing to teach it to Harry. The choices Harry makes on those ideas now are his own.

It’s almost worse like that, in all honesty – all of the pressure is on _Harry_ , and whatever he decides, the consequences fall on him – but at the same time, it is freeing. Harry can know entirely that he has control of where his House goes and what he throws the full political power of House Potter behind. If he chooses to lean towards the Dark a little more to counteract the power-imbalance created by the light, then it is his decision and his alone, and no one will stop him, just as no one can truthfully accuse him of being his uncle’s puppet. Really, he has no doubt that they’ll _try_ , especially once Uncle Salazar decides to come clean about his identity as Lord Slytherin, but an accusation without basis can be easily disproved and thrown back in the face of those who try to knock Harry down with it. Anyone who underestimates him will have their feet taken out from underneath them, and he’s honestly looking forward to it. Maybe, finally, he can hit back against Dumbledore – though subtly, of course, because going directly against that man, with all the power he has, is _not_ a good idea.

Some way from the shore, a dark tentacle breaks the smooth plane of lake-water gently, followed by several more, rippling as they appear to propel the Giant Squid slowly along just below the surface. Harry watches the movement in silence, a small grin rising to his lips as his breath continues to whiten the air before him, and only once the squid has disappeared altogether does he start to realise that his fingers feel a little numb. It’s probably best to get back to the castle, then.

Harry throws himself into his work with Professor Snape over the entirety of the Winter Holiday; he gets the first Monday off because it’s Yule, which is brilliant in every possible way except that Harry is with friends rather than _family_. Yes, he loves Draco and Hermione in their own ways, but they’re not Dudley, and certainly not Uncle Salazar. His Yule gifts from Hermione and Draco are wonderful, and those he gives are received equally well, though perhaps the best reaction is the sheer surprise giving way to quiet pleasure on Professor Snape’s face when Harry presents him with a handmade braid of black string to tie his hair away from his eyes, because Harry has seen that it irritates the man whenever he brews. He doesn’t expect that Professor Snape will ever wear it in public, but hopefully it will serve him well behind closed doors.

“Thank you, Harry,” Professor Snape responds, the most sincere he’s ever been. “I’m afraid I have nothing for you.”

Harry shrugs, unbothered.

“I took a leap,” he admits freely. “And you’ve given me enough.”

That gets him a small, barely visible smile before Draco bounds over to drag him away, towards where Uncle Salazar’s owl waits alongside an owl that Harry can only assume belongs to Draco’s parents. Harry is surprised to find that Uncle Salazar’s gift is wrapped in a thick wool, though he realises quickly that its purpose is to protect the precious cargo within, because once unwrapped, Harry finds himself standing speechless, staring blankly down at the small vial in his palm, filled to the brim with a strange, silvery substance, neither liquid, solid nor gas.

_Oh_.

Around the neck, a small note is tied, and with trembling fingers, Harry reaches out to turn it over and read what his uncle has written.

_You seemed to enjoy the story, so I thought you might like to see it for yourself. I have already cast a translation charm for your benefit. Keep it safe for me._   
_A Plentiful Yule, and much love,_   
_Salazar_

Uncle Salazar has sent him a memory. Absent-mindedly, Harry traces over the ink of the note, running the pads of his fingers across the single imperfection of the writing, where a drop of water has fallen onto the parchment and the ink has bled across it, the letters before it ever so slightly shaky. Perhaps, he realises faintly, not a water droplet, but a tear. If Uncle Salazar cried while writing this, he can only imagine what the memory itself might be.

“Harry, what did –?” Draco stops, staring at the vial with wide eyes. “Oh. _Wow_.”

“What is it?” Hermione asks curiously; Harry jumps, having not registered her arrival.

“This –” Harry starts, and has to stop and swallow when his voice comes out hoarse, a little choked. “ _This_ is a memory.”

Hermione gapes at the vial, lips working with soundless questions, and to Harry’s relief, Draco jumps in to explain.

“Memories can be removed and stored in something called a pensieve. You can use that to examine them more closely if you’re not so good with Occlumency, or to show them to others if they can’t use Legilimency. Or you can take them out just to clear your head a little, or to keep them safer…”

Harry tunes out the rest of the explanation, mind already awhirl with thoughts of where he can find a pensieve to view the memory in – though in all honesty, he’s not sure he can bring himself to quite yet. It feels somehow too poignant, too special to simply throw into a pensieve and dive straight in. This is a truly special gift, to be treasured and held close for just the right time.

Carefully, hands still shaking almost unnoticeably, he wraps the vial containing Uncle Salazar’s memory up in its woollen protection, then tucks it into his robes and scribbles out a quick, heartfelt thanks to give to Uncle Salazar’s owl before turning to smile at his friends.

“I’m going up to the dorm to sleep,” he tells them quietly. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

For the rest of the holiday, Harry buries himself in the mental stimulation provided by Professor Snape, learning not only about the Mandrake Restorative Draught, but about many other healing potions and the common ingredients within them as well as potions that cannot necessarily be considered ‘healing’ but can be used within the medical field. In his free time, he sits with Dudley, talks with Draco and Hermione, or, when neither of his friends are around to question what he’s doing, takes to roaming the castle in search of a portrait of Godric Gryffindor. Admittedly, the task is not helped by him having no idea what the man might look like, but none of the portraits he talks to seem to have any knowledge of such a painting.

Christmas Day is exquisitely torturous in ways Harry could never have imagined, because not _only_ is he dragged into the merry-making of the muggleborns and the Light, but Lockhart is there to make every single moment that little bit more painful.

“Harry!” the man exclaims towards the end of the nightmare, throwing an arm over Harry’s shoulder to squeeze and beaming down at him. “Lighten up! It’s Christmas, my boy!”

Harry shrugs Lockhart away and pins the idiot with the fiercest glare he can muster; this is honestly the last straw, and no matter the consequences, he won’t put up with this façade any longer.

“I do not celebrate Christmas,” he grits out, “And I would appreciate you _respecting_ that. Besides, I don’t think it’s entirely appropriate for you to be putting your hands on a student.”

He spins on his heel and storms out without another word. None of the teachers stop him, and no one attempts to reprimanded him for disrespecting one of their colleagues. Harry likes to imagine that they’re just happy _someone_ said it, though maybe that’s a bit of a stretch.

Three weeks after term restarts, he gives up his search. Not a single painting can give him any word on the existence of a portrait of Godric Gryffindor, and his own searches yield nothing – never mind that his friends and housemates are clearly starting to wonder what he’s doing. It wouldn’t do to have them get too curious or start asking questions, after all, and he can’t shake the thought anymore that his efforts have been fruitless from the start.

After another week of moping without any explanation to his friends, Harry remembers the vial, tucked safely away in his drawer. It’s time, he thinks, to watch the memory within, and for that, he’ll need a pensieve. At least one of the professors will have one, he thinks, and of course, he knows exactly who to start with.

“Sir?” he ventures, on the first Monday of February as he packs away his cleaned equipment following a successful brewing of the Calming Draught; they’ll be moving on to a new potion on Wednesday.

Professor Snape hums his acknowledgement, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you happen to have a pensieve anywhere?” Harry ventures nervously.

“A pensieve?” Professor Snape echoes, apparently taken aback.

“Uncle Salazar sent me a memory,” Harry explains quietly, before the Potions Master has to ask, “For Yule.”

At once, Professor Snape’s expression clears, understanding dawning across his face as he nods.

“As it happens, Harry, I have recently acquired a pensieve,” he admits, long fingers tapping the edge of the desk beneath himself. “Come by my office on Saturday evening, and you may borrow it then.”

Harry feels his face light up of its own accord, even as relief rushes through him; he hadn’t been sure how easy it would be, seeing as owning a pensieve is hardly _common_.

“Thank you, Sir!” he chirps, earning a twitch of Professor Snape’s lips, and stands with his kit all packed away. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow, then, Sir.”

“See you then, Harry,” Professor Snape agrees, Harry doing his level best not to start skipping until after the door to Professor Snape’s laboratory is closed behind himself.

Now, all he has to do is not get too excited for the rest of the week.

Unfortunately, the world seems to have conspired against Harry to bring him down from any good mood he might have, as though overcome by some toddler-style fit of jealousy at the idea of Harry being able to find enough positives to outweigh the negatives at any one time. It’s only Wednesday evening that, when Harry is walking up to Ravenclaw Tower from the dungeons, the voice returns, sinister as ever as Harry freezes in place, breath caught in his throat.

“ _I smell you… Come to me…_ ”

He’s just reached the third floor, and it sounds horribly, sickeningly, as though the voice is right beneath him, seemingly having emerged from a spot just a little to his right and down on the second floor. There’s no way he feels safe to go back to Professor Snape, so, with his heart pounding in his ears and his hand on his wand, he does the only thing he can.

He runs.

“ _Let me rip you… Let me eat you… So hungry…_ ”

The voice echoes menacingly behind him all the way up to Ravenclaw Tower, rasping threats seemingly from the walls themselves as Harry pelts his way up stairs and then along corridors, all the way to the base of Ravenclaw Tower to fling himself up the spiral staircase, not once daring to look back. When he reaches the top, he sobs out the riddle and stumbles in, gasping for breath and only relaxing when he realises that the voice never followed him up the tower.

“Fuck,” he hears himself whisper, ignoring the handful of older students eyeing him with clear uncertainty, and staggers his way to the dormitory.

Tomorrow, he’ll find out if the monster has attacked someone else and inform Professor Snape that he heard it again. Tonight, however, he just wants to _sleep_.

Despite his plans, he finds himself lying awake in his bed, listening to the wind whistling past the windows and rattling the frames, wondering whether tonight is the night that someone will die and whether there’s any way he could have made contact with Professor Snape. It seems strange that magic can do so much and yet cannot help two people in the same building to communicate without prior arrangements; there must _surely_ be a way to do it, even if he does not know about it.

Perhaps he could have a look in the Library to see if he can find anything, but certainly, it won’t be happening tonight.

The voice had seemed to emerge somewhere on the floor below Harry. The idea bothers him, somehow – that it did not seem to come from the ground floor, where someone might have let it in, but from the second floor, almost as though it has been staying there. Perhaps, tomorrow, he can retrace his steps and try to pinpoint exactly _where_ he first heard it.

Yes, tomorrow, he can do that – with his friends, or at least Hermione, because she knows about the voice. Or, if not tomorrow, then at some point in the next week. Maybe going tomorrow would be too dangerous; maybe the monster would be waiting for him.

Knowing that there’s nothing he could have done does not make finding out that _Cho_ , of all people, has been petrified any easier.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning all! I hope you are all doing well and are not, like me, still struggling with whether you want anything to do with Harry Potter in the wake of Rowling showing her true colours explicitly.
> 
> As ever, I hope to hear your thoughts/opinions/criticism/ideas in the comments (which, in light of my last conversation with my therapist, because I regret everything I ever express until someone responds and, in doing so, 'validates' whatever I have communicated - which honestly makes email exchanges the bane of my existence, but there we go; that's a little insight into my life for you all).

“Harry, do you not think I could _help_ if you told me what we’re doing?” Hermione asks, exasperated, as she plants her hands on her hips. “Instead of just standing around here being completely useless?”

It must be at least the third time she has asked since Harry dragged her straight from their last class of the week to the second floor, but Harry hasn’t felt particularly like answering. Now, however, with no clue of where to go from here, he realises that maybe, he could do better than to just tug her around the place until she gets fed up.

“I heard the voice the other night,” he admits quietly, “Before Cho was petrified. It started somewhere around here, I’m sure of it, and it chased me all the way up to Ravenclaw Tower. It must have caught her on the way back down, but I – I’m just _sure_ it started here.”

Cho had been in her full Quidditch kit when she was found, a broom in one hand, a practice snitch held aloft in the other, as if she’d been throwing it up and down as she went. She must have been out practising before tomorrow’s match against Slytherin – a match that Harry will now have to play in, with Cho’s practice being for _nothing_ , and for what? She isn’t a muggleborn, Harry’s fairly sure, and neither is the cat, though the caretaker _is_ rumoured to be a squib; it only adds fuel to his belief that the theory of the attacks being related to blood purity are unfounded.

It doesn’t seem fair that this has happened to her, either, right before the match she was most excited for. It doesn’t seem fair at all.

“Here?” Hermione muses. “Wasn’t Mrs Norris found just up the corridor from here?”

“Mrs Norris?” Harry repeats, utterly baffled.

“The caretaker’s cat,” Hermione clarifies with a grin, though she sobers up in seconds. “She was just outside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”

“ _Moaning Myrtle_?” Harry echoes, even more confused than before, and Hermione sighs.

“It’s the second-floor girls’ bathroom. It’s haunted. By Moaning Myrtle. She seems like a fairly new ghost, really. I think she died when she was a student here.”

Harry’s lips form a silent, almost involuntary ‘o’ of understanding, and he nods in slow acknowledgement.

“Maybe we should have a look around there?” Hermione adds. “There might be something…?”

“Good idea,” Harry agrees, quietly sheepish as she rolls her eyes at him – a growing habit which he’s fairly sure that he himself is to blame for.

For a good ten minutes, they inspect the area, going over what was where, from the cat itself – or herself, according to Hermione – down to the water that had flooded across the floor, finding absolutely nothing to offer any clues as to where the monster might be coming from. Harry can’t say he’s all that surprised, to be entirely honest; it _was_ over four months ago, after all.

It’s just as he’s about to suggest that they give up and head outside to enjoy the waning sunlight that a thought strikes him, and he stops dead in his tracks, trying to work out why it seems so significant to his subconscious mind. There had been students on both sides of the corridor. The scene had been entirely blocked in. _There was nowhere the monster could have gone without being spotted._

Nowhere except…

Almost unconsciously, he turns towards ‘Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom’, examining the door in silence as he thinks over the idea. Mapping out Hogwarts as best he can in his head, he thinks that the bathroom itself might actually be _exactly_ the right spot. And in that case…

“Hermione,” he starts cautiously, more ideas flooding in by the second, “How did Moaning Myrtle die?”

Hermione twists to blink at him, a small crease forming in her brow as she bites her lip, her eyes flickering from Harry to the toilet door and then back again.

“I don’t know,” she admits slowly. “You don’t think…?”

“I think it’s the right place,” Harry allows. “And the monster didn’t have anywhere else to go after it attacked Mrs… the cat, whatever its name was.”

Warily, Hermione takes a step away from the bathroom.

“Draco _did_ say it had been opened before,” she tells him quietly. “His father told him after the first attack. Someone – Someone _did_ die. They almost closed the school.”

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Harry nods jerkily.

“Let’s – Let’s come back some other time,” he suggests nervously. “With Neville and Draco. More – More manpower, you know? Just in case.”

Wordlessly, Hermione nods her agreement, and Harry joins her in backing away to a safe distance before turning and speed-walking towards the Great Hall. It’s time for dinner, anyway.

Harry realises quite early on Saturday that he won’t get a chance to return to the second floor before Sunday, not least of all because Roger has banned him from so much saying ‘hello’ to Draco or Hermione until after the match has ended, which leaves them with no time to make plans. Instead, Harry eats breakfast with the rest of the team, glad that Roger insisted on him absorbing the pre-match atmosphere when the team played Hufflepuff, regardless of Harry’s lack of involvement in the match itself; it makes the whole thing a lot less overwhelming than it otherwise would have been.

When the entire team has finished eating, Harry rises with the rest of them, following Roger from the hall in absolute silence. Now, they will spend an hour warming up and getting accustomed to the weather conditions, feeling out their brooms at the same time to ensure that everything is set. Towards the end of the hour, they’ll run drills and practice set moves, then retire to their changing room for more last-minute reminders of strategy as well as a short talk from Roger and anyone else who wants to contribute. Harry knows the routine well and even joined in on the warm-up last time to help Cho out with her Seeker-specific drills; the only daunting part about it is being alone in that regard, but he swallows down those feelings and tells himself to focus.

He has a job to do today.

Before he knows it, he’s in the tunnel with the rest of his team – Roger at the front, him at the back – waiting for his Captain to lead them all out. In his hand, his Nimbus 2000 – an eleventh birthday present from Uncle Salazar – is a familiar weight in his hand, comforting as ever and doing its job to keep him grounded before what will be his very first Quidditch match. Excitement and nerves mix as a buzzing tension in his abdomen, his gut twisting as he stares out at what little of the stands he can see, with an already-roaring crowd filling every single seat to the point where Harry almost expects it to overflow or burst and send bodies spilling everywhere.

Quickly, he shakes his head to rid himself of that thought, following his teammates out of the tunnel as the stadium explodes with cheering from every angle. Harry blocks it all out, gripping his broom and narrowing his eyes to stare around at the sky, ignoring as he does so the fierce wind that tears at his Quidditch robes.

“Players, mount your brooms!” Madam Hooch calls, and Harry slings one leg over his broom, feeling it hum beneath himself as he readies to kick off. “Three, two, one…”

At the whistle blast, he pushes up and away from the ground, soaring upwards and already scanning the sky for any hint of gold. He does not plan on losing this game, not even to Draco and his team of Nimbus 2001s. His friend will understand – eventually.

Around him, the game whirls – Slytherin scores, and then again, and then Ravenclaw scores – and Harry ignores it all. He has a snitch to catch, and nothing else. The bludgers mean nothing as they whizz past him, little more than something to barrel-roll beneath and keep on going, ignoring their threat in favour of his primary goal. For a moment, 50-40 up, he thinks he spots a glimmer, only to realise that it is not the snitch but a Gryffindor’s idea of decorations.

Twenty minutes in and with no sign of his target, fully aware that Draco is keeping tabs on him as well as searching for the snitch, he decides to start playing mind-games. As soon as Draco glances at him, he jolts and starts forward, diving towards the base of the Slytherin posts and laughing internally when Draco follows him, changing course just in time to avoid the post and swinging around it, back up to a comfortable height to snitch-watch once more. Still no sign, so when Draco’s gaze flashes across to him again, he starts to climb upwards, levelling off at double his previous height before slowly dropping back down, well aware of Draco shadowing him close by as he continues to scan for that golden ball.

Lower, he drops, and then lower still, gaze sweeping over the grounds below and occasionally – just in case – above. He makes to go, catches Draco’s jolt out of the corner of his eye, and bites the inside of his cheek to stifle a chuckle, eyes still scanning the stadium for any sign of –

_There!_

His mind-games have paid off; Draco hesitates just a fraction of a second longer before following, and that single beat is all Harry needs; he flattens himself against his broom, sights fixed on the golden ball far below and, when it twitches, he follows it, twisting this way and that and letting the other players move out of _his_ way, ignoring their alarmed shouts. The snitch is right there, getting closer by the second, and he almost has it when it swerves around the posts and back the way it came. Harry almost loses sight of it, but finds it just in time and follows, ignoring Draco’s presence behind him, having been catching up only to drop behind when the snitch darted off. Draco might have the better broom, but Harry is starting to realise that _he_ is the better Seeker, and he will need every drop of that advantage to win.

_Come on_ , he urges himself silently as the snitch shoots upwards, tilting his own broom back and rolling to follow it as it goes over his head, back in the direction they’ve come and up. _Come on, Potter._

He’s so close. It’s just a matter of metres, now, and he’s gaining all the time, so very nearly _there_ …

Steadying himself, he reaches out, straining for it with all his might until he doesn’t think he can reach any further – and then it’s there, in his hand, his fingers already closed automatically around it as he gapes at the gold glinting against his palm, allowing a beam to spread across his face before he sweeps his broom back around to face the Ravenclaw stand and holds the snitch aloft.

“ _YES_ , HARRY!” Roger roars, then the older boy is there, hovering right beside him and leaning in for a hug; Harry grips his broom with his knees to return the embrace, grinning from ear to ear even as his breath is knocked from his lungs by several solid pats. “How’s that for a first game, hey? Well done. Very well done, mate.”

It means a lot, coming from his Captain, and Harry fights the urge to duck his head, settling for murmuring his thanks before pulling away to guide his broom down to the grass to meet the rest of the team again.

After lunch, it’s straight up to the common room for further celebrations, Harry finding himself on the receiving end of handshakes from students he barely even recognises, trying to juggle all of their names in his mind with each formal greeting. Hopefully, they’ll understand if he forgets some of them.

“Well done, Harry!” Terry tells him finally, grinning sympathetically as he flops down into an armchair, exhausted. “Long day?”

“You could say that,” Harry agrees, lifting his hand to scrub over his eyes. “Ugh… I hope Draco isn’t too upset about that.”

Lisa snorts dubiously.

“You _did_ make him look like a bit of an idiot, Harry,” she reasons, quietly amused. “Diving all over the place, knowing he’d follow – it was a great tactic, but I doubt he’ll be impressed.”

“Well…” Harry sighs, unable to muster anything more besides a shrug for several seconds. “I’ll see if I can catch him before dinner; I only got a handshake with him earlier.”

“Why not after?” Padma suggests. “You’ve got more time, then.”

Shaking his head, Harry settles more comfortably into his chair.

“I’m going to see Professor Snape,” he explains.

To his surprise, several of his housemates huff in frustration, Mandy shaking her head as Oliver raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“…What?”

“He’s too hard on you,” Isobel declares, brow creased with agitation. “I mean, I get that it’s his thing, favouring Slytherins, but that’s no need to put everyone else down, never mind target you specifically…”

“What?” Harry repeats, even more confused than before. “He’s not _targeting_ me. Not in a _bad_ way, at least.”

Isobel’s stare is disbelieving, but Harry is gratified to see that Terry looks just as baffled by their behaviour as Harry feels.

“You know Harry _chooses_ to go to those extra sessions, right?” the other boy offers for him, squinting at their housemates in obvious bemusement. “It’s not, like, detention or something.”

Something a little like comprehension starts to dawn as Harry stares around at his fellow Ravenclaws. Some stare back with sympathetic indignation fading to confusion; others, like him, seem to be making a transition from confusion to understanding.

“He _does_?” Oliver demands, head swivelling to Terry and then back to Harry. “What – _Why_?”

Quietly surprised that this has never come up before – he doesn’t see how they _couldn’t_ know, when even Cho seemed to be aware on meeting him – Harry takes a deep breath to explain.

“Professor Snape has offered to make me his apprentice next year,” he starts carefully. “He said he sees potential, and since I’d really like to be a Potions Master when I grow up, it kind of…”

He waves his hands vaguely, shrugging.

“So these sessions have sort of been just because I enjoy pushing the subject further than we do in class, and sort of because we need to see if we’d work well as master and apprentice. That’s not why I’m going to see him tonight, anyway.”

Approximately half of his housemates blink at him in shock and utter bemusement, apparently speechless in the wake of this ‘revelation’. Terry, fortunately, is there to continue the conversation in place of their silence.

“So why _are_ you going to see him tonight?”

Hesitating, Harry picks at his nails as he considers how honest to be, then realises that there’s nothing wrong with telling them the truth, because it won’t reveal any secrets in and of itself.

“My uncle sent me a memory for Yule,” he tells his friend quietly, nodding in confirmation as Terry’s eyes widen. “Professor Snape has a pensieve, apparently.”

“A _memory_?” Lisa whispers, awed. “Harry, that’s – _Wow_ …”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, allowing himself a small grin as he thinks of the vial tucked away in a drawer, its precious contents ready to be viewed in a matter of hours. “I don’t actually know what the memory is, but I have a vague idea.”

Uncle Salazar had written that Harry had enjoyed the story, and that it had been translated, which makes Harry think that it might come from his days in the 10th Century – an idea that only adds all the more weight to an already poignant gift. That Uncle Salazar would offer him a chance to see something like that – would _trust_ him to keep it safe and undamaged in the first place – is more touching than Harry could possibly say.

He has been doing his best to ignore the small voice whispering that maybe Uncle Salazar just found the memory too painful to keep in his head. Really, it’s probably best not to think about that.

Unfortunately, now that the thought has sunk its talons into his brain, it doesn’t seem willing to leave and, after dinner, Harry finds himself wandering down to Professor Snape’s office with the same idea still rattling around in his skull. There’s no way of knowing, he tells himself, so he might as well forget it, but still the doubt lingers, prompting him to wonder if Uncle Salazar is even worse than Harry thought.

_Or maybe_ , he thinks pointedly, _it’s just an innocent gift, because Uncle Salazar knew I’d like it and wanted to share it with me._

“Good evening, Harry,” Professor Snape greets when he knocks, stepping aside to let him in. “How familiar are you with using a pensieve?”

Hesitating, Harry chews his lip.

“I have an idea,” he admits, “But I’m not really…”

“In that case, I will explain it first,” Professor Snape assures him, leading him over to a large, shallow bowl filled with familiar silver substance. “Tip the memory into here, wait for a few seconds to let it settle, then you need only touch it with one finger. I will be at my desk, marking your class’s essays.”

He does not, unsurprisingly, sound particularly enthused by the prospect, and Harry finds himself biting back a small grin in response.

“Thank you, Sir,” is all he offers aloud, turning to the pensieve as he pulls the vial of his uncle’s memory from within his robes and unwraps it gently.

As he uncorks it, he cannot help but hold his breath, watching the ethereal matter swirl within until the vial is tilted sideways and it starts to pour out, into the basin before him. When it has all left the vial – not a drop of residue remaining – he waits to the count of five, excitement building in his chest as he tries not to bounce on the balls of his feet. This is it. He’s going to watch Uncle Salazar’s memory.

Slowly, carefully, he sets the vial to the side, then lowers his finger into the pensieve.

Then he’s falling, hurtling through grey space and nothingness, unable to work out which way is up and which is down, his mind spinning in endless circles as he flounders for an anchor, for anything…

And then he’s on solid ground, standing in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, surrounded by towering oaks, birches and many other trees. Birdsong echoes above him, the woodland seemingly teeming with life, and for a moment, Harry can only gaze around in quiet awe, eyes wide to take in everything he possibly can, until he remembers that there’s a reason he’s here.

Tearing his eyes from the treetops, he scans the surrounding area and finds two men of similar height just a couple of metres away, their backs to him, apparently engaged in something of a fierce debate. One of them, of slimmer build and with black, braided hair, stands with his arms folded, his stance firm as he seems to try to reason with his brown-haired, stockier companion.

_Uncle Salazar_ , Harry recognises the first as – though younger, possibly around the age of twenty – which makes the second, already recognisable from the red and gold he wears…

“I am _telling_ you, Godric, you cannot simply walk into a dragon’s cave and steal from its hoard!”

“ _Sal_ …” Godric Gryffindor grins, reaching out to grasp Uncle Salazar’s upper arms gently, thumbs running over the bare skin. “It’ll be quick. In, out, and that’s that. It’s asleep.”

“ _It’s just a sword_ ,” Uncle Salazar grits out. “You are _not_ putting your life at risk for some fancy sword –”

“It’s not ‘some fancy sword,’” Godric snorts fondly, rolling his eyes. “It’s _perfect_. Goblin-made – I can tell. It’s just the right size, and knowing the goblins, it’ll be perfectly weighted…”

Uncle Salazar glances away, jaw tight, and Harry is struck by the strange sensation of his uncle staring right at him without any knowledge of his presence.

“You just want to sneak into a dragon’s cave,” Uncle Salazar sighs finally, turning back to Godric. “Admit it.”

“…Maybe,” Godric concedes and, when he grins, his eyes gleam with excitement. “It’ll be fun, Sal! Just _think_ …”

“Ric…” Uncle Salazar groans. “For Magic’s sake, I – Fine. But I will have _no_ part in this. If you die, it will be _entirely_ on you.”

“I won’t die,” Godric tells him, soft and serious, though the glint of anticipation doesn’t leave his eyes even as he leans in for a short, sweet kiss; Harry has the sudden feeling that he’s intruding on a private moment – but Uncle Salazar gave this to him and invited him to watch, so he doesn’t feel bad about drinking in the sight of his uncle so happy with the man he loved.

It’s strange to think that, despite Godric preparing to sneak into a dragon’s cave, Uncle Salazar seems more relaxed than Harry has ever seen him. More than that, it’s a little heart-breaking.

“You’d better not,” Uncle Salazar mutters as Godric turns toward the cave entrance, wand in his hand and fierce determination in his eyes.

Briefly, Harry considers following Godric into the cave, just to see the action, but the temptation to stay with Uncle Salazar – who lurks at the entrance, just close enough to be able to see inside without entering himself – and take in the differences between this man and the one Harry knows is too strong. This is his beloved uncle, happy in the life that was torn from him, and Harry wouldn’t miss a chance to see it for the world.

Despite the years that have passed – from what he remembers of the story Uncle Salazar told him, this was only a few years after the first time-travel event – Uncle Salazar doesn’t really look much different in terms of age, but then, he’s always looked fairly young for his late twenties and early thirties, so perhaps Harry shouldn’t be surprised, especially given that he’s basing his knowledge of aging on muggles and their shorter lifespans. His hair is shorter, in modern times, but Harry recognises the hairstyle he sees now from when Uncle Salazar first arrived in their back garden: long hair held back from his face by a series of small braids threaded horizontally through the looser strands on either side of his head, meeting at the back to melt as one into the cascade of blackness. It’s shorter, Harry thinks, than it was before Aunt Petunia persuaded him to cut it, and for a moment, the idea seems strange, until he realises – with some incredulity towards his own stupidity – that of course it would have grown since the point at which he’s seeing it now.

His eyes – the Potter eyes – are the same, a brilliant green that Harry recognises from his own reflection, and yet somehow different, less knowing and also less troubled, though Harry has little doubt that they’ll develop the former trait before the latter. His face carries less tension, too, though there is a shade of the grief that Harry is used to present there already – likely grief for the loss of his first family, Harry realises, including Harry’s own father.

Beyond any of that, it’s his outfit that catches Harry’s attention. So, yes, Harry has always been aware that clothing in the 10th Century was very different to nowadays, but that doesn’t lessen the shock of seeing Uncle Salazar in a tailored green tunic with daggers strapped at his waist and, Harry realises on peering closer, in his boots. He seems almost like a warrior, if Harry’s to be entirely honest, which is _not_ an impression that Harry would say he normally gets from his uncle.

_Huh_.

Harry is shaken from the strangeness of the situation by Uncle Salazar stiffening and reaching for his wand, clearly ready to move in an instant if he deems it necessary to do so; the dragon, if Harry remembers the story correctly, must have woken.

“Godric!” his uncle hisses, audibly alarmed as a low, angry rumble vibrates from within the cave.

“Salazar, _run_!” Godric yells, and without question, Uncle Salazar bolts, Harry spinning on his heel to sprint after his uncle even as he realises that Uncle Salazar is faster than Harry ever gave him credit for.

Behind them, a dragon roars its fury; Harry twists back in time to see Godric barely succeed in dodging a blast of dragon-fire by diving into a forward roll and springing up on the other side of a tree to race onwards. To Harry’s disbelief, a grin stretches the man’s cheeks, splitting his face from ear-to-ear, and distantly, Harry realises that he’s _enjoying_ this.

“Stop _smiling_ , you bastard!” Uncle Salazar screams over the sound of the dragon’s rage, apparently having seen the expression as well. “You’ve just gone and got us killed!”

“We’re not going to die!” Godric shouts back, beam not faltering for a second. “We’ll get away soon enough – just keep running!”

“It’s a fucking _dragon_! We’re not going to get away!”

“Ever the optimist, Sal!” Godric returns, to Harry’s utter incredulity; if Uncle Salazar were looking at _him_ like that, there’s no way he’d be trying to tease the man.

Godric Gryffindor, he’s starting to realise, is completely, hopelessly insane.

“You fucking – behind this tree!” Uncle Salazar snaps, slowing for a beat to let Godric catch up then grasping his collar and dragging him behind a particularly large tree. “Now this way – go!”

Harry, having been hoping for a moment to catch his breath, can’t help a groan as they start running again, this time in a slightly different direction.

“It’s following still!” Godric grits out, slightly hoarse from breathlessness. “Sal, go right and I’ll go left; it’s only after me!”

“Oh, that’s right, I’ll just leave you to be mauled by a dragon!” Uncle Salazar retorts. “Are you _mad_? No!”

“What happened to having no part in this?” Godric snorts, but doesn’t protest, merely reaching out to catch Uncle Salazar when he stumbles over a particularly well-hidden tree root. “At least the sword was worth it.”

“Don’t tell me you kept the…!”

Uncle Salazar trails off into furious silence, mouthing silent insults as they continue to half-run, half-stagger through this unfamiliar forest, Harry doing his best to keep up while the dragon roars on their heels and torches a row of trees just to their left. Even though he _knows_ that both Uncle Salazar and Godric will make it out of this alive – and that he can’t be harmed by anything within this memory – his heart is racing, his own breath roaring in his ears as his pulse slams through his body between every thunderous step. Dragon-fire blasts past him, and he flinches from its deadly reach, but only feels the barest touch of warmth compared to the searing heat that he knows would have hit him in reality.

“Come on, Sal,” Godric urges ahead of him, a hand on Uncle Salazar’s arm tugging Harry’s uncle forcefully along as they both pant desperately for air that Harry doubts is coming. “We _will_ get away – and I’ll never drag you out on one of these again, I swear.”

To Harry’s surprise, Uncle Salazar chokes on a breathless laugh.

“If you think you’ll be going out alone after _this_ , you’re sorely mistaken,” he gasps out, then tugs Godric to the side just in time to avoid the other man being torched. “This way, now!”

And then they’re off again in a different direction, the dragon roaring in frustration behind them; the very ground seems to shake as it stomps to a halt and turns, wings colliding with unfortunate trees and coming out on top. Despite its lack of mobility, it’s gaining on them, Harry realises, and though he knows that they’ll get away, he can’t imagine _how_ ; he doesn’t remember what Uncle Salazar told him about this bit. When he risks a glance back, the dragon is right there, jaw stretching wide as flames build in its throat, and surely there’s no way –

Uncle Salazar tugs Godric sideways again, throwing them both to the floor beneath an overhang of dirt as fire sears the air above them, and as their panicked gasps mingle, Harry looks around desperately, unable to work out how they’ll possibly get out of this.

“Humans! This way! Now!”

Uncle Salazar and Godric move without question, scrambling towards the goblin who has suddenly appeared from nowhere, and Harry follows them after a beat of shocked stillness, sliding down into the previously hidden cave as the rest of the story comes rushing back. Of course – they’ll stay for a few days, until the danger is passed, then they’ll head home. How did Harry forget that?

“Thank you for your help,” he hears Uncle Salazar murmur to the goblin who let them in, turning to watch his uncle bow to the creature. “We are most grateful.”

The goblin bows in return.

“Shelter here for as long as you need; we will offer you food and drink as well, in return for your assistance in a few projects.”

“Of course,” Uncle Salazar agrees at once. “We would be more than happy.”

As soon as the goblin moves on, Uncle Salazar turns to Godric with a huff only to tilt forward and collapse against Godric’s chest. Alarmed, Harry takes an aborted step forward before remembering that there’s nothing he can do, but Godric merely chuckles and pats Uncle Salazar’s back gently before rubbing his palm soothingly up and down Uncle Salazar’s spine.

“My apologies, my love,” he murmurs softly. “It _is_ a very nice sword.”

Harry chokes on a laugh even as Uncle Salazar emits a similarly strangled noise, shaking his head without a word; he’s starting to think that he might quite like Godric, beyond simply the knowledge of what he means to Uncle Salazar. He has a good sense of humour, certainly.

After a moment, Uncle Salazar rights himself – somehow managing to maintain the same lack of space between himself and Godric – and glances up to meet Godric’s eyes, Harry’s throat squeezing in the second he sees the expression on his uncle’s face.

He _knew_ Uncle Salazar loved – loves – Godric. Of course he did. Despite this, the sheer depth of emotion in Uncle Salazar’s eyes catches him entirely off-guard, stealing his breath with the realisation of exactly how much Uncle Salazar lost when he returned to modern times. They’ve almost been killed by a dragon, and yet Uncle Salazar looks happier than Harry has ever seen him, seemingly caught up in Godric and Godric alone – and this is but a matter of years into his time in the 10th Century. How much must have built between the two of them in the remaining decade or so?

Biting down on his bottom lip and blinking back tears – though there would be no one here to see him cry – Harry finds that he has to turn away. He has always known that Uncle Salazar lost a lot on the day he was pulled back to the 20th Century, but this feels like something else altogether. This, Harry doesn’t know what to do with.

He’d give up Uncle Salazar in a heartbeat, he thinks, if it meant letting his uncle go back to this.

Turning back, he takes a moment to look them over again, examining their expressions and body language and committing Uncle Salazar’s smile to memory. One day, he decides, he wants someone to look at _him_ like that.

One day, he wants Uncle Salazar to be that happy again.

When the memory ends, Harry staggers to catch himself against the door of Professor Snape’s office to avoid accidentally crashing into the shelving, pushing down the tears threatening to well in his eyes until he has collected the memory and offered his gratitude to Professor Snape, escaping the office with a rushed farewell. Then, swiping at his eyes, he hurries from the dungeons and up the stairs, back towards Ravenclaw Tower. He takes the spiral staircase three steps at a time, chokes out an answer to the riddle, and does his very best not to run through the common room, though he keeps his head down until he can get into the Second-Year bathroom and lock the door behind himself to ensure that no one else will hear him crying.

It was an incredible memory – very entertaining, now that the ‘sheer terror’ aspect is fading, and maybe even a little therapeutic when it comes to his own dragon encounter, as much as it also drags such fears back up – and yet Harry finds that he cannot move past the image of Uncle Salazar so _happy_ with Godric, a man his uncle has lost forever. Harry doesn’t think he could bear to have something like that taken away from him, never mind so suddenly and completely, without warning or any chance at all to come to terms with it.

No wonder Uncle Salazar has been struggling to reconcile with his loss.

Eventually, tired and more than a little emotional, Harry emerges from the bathroom to get ready for bed, curling up beneath his duvet once his teeth are brushed and his pyjamas on to contemplate what he’s seen in silence. Yes, it was good to watch, to see what _had_ been a funny story play out in actuality, and yet all he can really focus on is that small, seemingly insignificant moment at the end, with its horrible realisation of exactly what Uncle Salazar has lost.

Thinking about Uncle Salazar now, back home with Uncle Vernon sneering at his relationship with Godric, mourning for his second family all by himself, Harry can’t escape the feeling of inexplicable dread that curls itself in the pit of his stomach. As hard as he tries to shake it, the sense of foreboding simply won’t leave him alone, and he falls asleep with it still hanging over his head.

His dreams are filled with dragon-fire and bright smiles, melting into burning pain in his back and Professor Snape crumbling before him, devoured by malevolent flames as he screams in horror.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning all. It's a short kind of interlude chapter for you all today but, unlike the last time we had one of these, I'm still going to stick to my normal update schedule. 
> 
> As ever, I'd love to hear from you in the comments!

As soon as the first Wizengamot session of February finishes, Albus Dumbledore is on his feet. Normally, he would meander through the crowd, stopping to talk to anyone and everyone, solidifying alliances and pulling those whose freedom would be dangerous back into line, but today, he has one purpose and one purpose only. There is but one person he wishes to speak with today and, if he does not hurry, they could be gone before he can reach them.

As if on cue, his target looks around, hidden gaze seeming to fix on him, but, to his mixed surprise, relief and suspicion, the other does not flee, instead turning to wait patiently for his arrival.

“Good afternoon, Lord Dumbledore,” Lord Slytherin’s proxy greets, bowing his head, and Albus almost stumbles in his shock, throat running dry with the realisation of exactly _who_ he is talking to; he would recognise both the voice and the magical aura anywhere, even if the latter has changed since they last spoke.

“Quirinus,” he returns carefully, heart sinking at the nod he receives; with it comes the confirmation that this mysterious ‘Lord Slytherin’ is indeed, as he feared, Tom himself. “I did not expect to see you again.”

“I’m sure you did not,” Quirinus replies, dry and perhaps even a little bitter.

_Of course_ , Albus thinks, _Tom must not have been happy with his failure._

“Was there something you wished to speak to me about?” the younger man continues. “You seemed quite purposeful on your path over here.”

Albus hums, nodding slowly as he monitors the rest of the room; they are less isolated than he might have liked, with far too many ears around for the conversation he wants to have. There is certainly no use in attempting to poke his way into any kind of information surrounding the disturbing events up at the school these days, no matter how sure he might be that Tom was the culprit the first time around.

“I merely wanted to see if you could give me any indication of what your master wants,” he offers carefully, making sure to keep up the kindly twinkle in his eye that he spent his early years of adulthood perfecting. “Perhaps there are areas in which we might see eye-to-eye?”

“My master?” Quirinus repeats, apparently amused, though by what, Albus can’t decipher. “My Lord Slytherin is hardly my _master_ , Lord Dumbledore.”

That is not a response that Albus would ever have expected. Tom is very much the master of his followers and, last Albus knew, that included Quirinus; certainly, no one _escapes_ Tom Riddle’s servitude without help from an equally powerful opponent – namely, Albus himself, as with Severus Snape. It seems horribly as though he is missing something – though what, he cannot begin to fathom.

“Is he not?” he asks lightly, trying to probe the subject further and work out whether Quirinus is merely deflecting to ensure that this cannot be used as evidence of association with Tom.

“He is my Lord,” Quirinus tells him, as though it is in any way close to that simple. “I am a member of his House, not his servant.”

If the previous statement left Albus off-balance, then he is wobbling precariously on the edge of a cliff now. This is not anything that Albus could have predicted, and it does not match up with any of the knowledge Albus holds of Tom; his former student would _never_ have allowed one of his followers into the House of his beloved ancestor.

Desperately, he tries to work out what has happened and where his reasoning has fallen through. There must be some reason why Tom would choose to ‘sully’ his ancestry, as he would undoubtedly see it, by introducing another into the House of Slytherin, yet Albus cannot see him resorting to such an action, no matter the circumstances. Tom guards his Slytherin heritage with a jealousy like nothing Albus has ever seen and, even besides that, why _Quirinus_ of all people, who has failed him so drastically?

It is with a sudden sense of nauseating horror that Albus realises his mistake. In all of his reasoning and calculations, there is one key flaw in his logic – an assumption put in place at the very start of it all, which now seems to unravel before his very eyes.

Tom is not Lord Slytherin. Whoever this new player in the game might be, he is not a known quantity. He is powerful, certainly – powerful enough to bring Quirinus in under his wing, away from Tom, and to perform mindless feats of wandless magic in the few times he has graced the Wizengamot with his own presence – but he is entirely new to Albus, and that in itself is frightening. How could anyone have slipped through Albus’ net so blatantly?

“Is everything quite alright, Lord Dumbledore?” Quirinus asks politely.

Speechless, Albus can summon nothing besides a nod.

“In that case, I’m afraid that I’ll have to excuse myself,” Quirinus continues, dipping his head in one last nod of acknowledgement. “My Lord wishes for me to speak with Lord Malfoy on his behalf.”

Albus’ throat runs dry as the younger man sweeps past him, towards where Lucius Malfoy watches on through narrowed eyes. Lord Slytherin is falling in with the Dark, and that cannot be accepted; Albus cannot allow this newcomer to join Tom when his former student inevitably rises once more, for the risk of upsetting the balance away from the Light would be far too great.

He will have to do whatever he can to get himself into Lord Slytherin’s good books. Unfortunately, he needs to know what the man wants for that, and Quirinus has managed quite successfully to avoid giving him any answers on that front.

Gritting his teeth, Albus strides from the room with his hands curling into fists at his sides. He has much, it seems, to think on.

Quirinus arrives back at Potter Manor, his home for the time being, with a loud crack which is followed half a second later by a much softer sigh of exhaustion. Politics is hardly his forte, and an hour-long discussion with Lucius Malfoy followed by repetitive small-talk with various other Lords and Ladies – if the minefield that is light conversation in the Wizengamot could really be referred to as ‘small-talk’ – isn’t exactly his idea of a good time, but whatever Salazar asks of him, he is obligated to do. Standing in for the man during Wizengamot sessions and talking to stuffy old sorts – not that Malfoy himself is old, but he’s rather the exception – might be dreary, but it is a small price to pay compared to the hell that Salazar helped to save him from.

Automatically, his hand rises to the back of his head, running quickly over his growing hair to ensure that the skull beneath is smooth, the skin unbroken. He _knows_ , logically, that the soul piece that attached itself to him is gone and will not be coming back, but still the fear lingers. The worst part is knowing that he wouldn’t be aware of something being wrong if it were to happen; he’d simply fall back into line, mindlessly obeying every second of the day with no idea that his actions might not be entirely reasonable or his own.

It’s a chilling thought, and Quirinus certainly thinks he has the right to be somewhat disturbed by it.

Striding up the gravel path to the front doors of the manor, Quirinus slips inside only to freeze at the sound of voices, casting a hurried disillusionment charm over himself and finding a corner to wait in as Salazar appears, deep in animated conversation with the Minister for Magic himself.

“Well, this has certainly been a, er, lovely afternoon,” Fudge manages finally, Quirinus biting back a grimace at the implications. “I’ll see you next week, then?”

“Same time, same place,” Salazar confirms, bright smile softening to something equally as charming as its predecessor but somewhat gentler, a little melancholy. “I’ll do my best to wait until then.”

It’s all a show, Quirinus knows – and not just the act of being interested in Cornelius Fudge as more than a means to an end. All of the energy that Salazar is now displaying will be gone the second Fudge is out of sight, and Quirinus will see him just long enough to give his report on the week’s activities and receive his instructions for the next seven days before Salazar returns to his nephew’s home to let the glamours fade and the potions run out, back to the shell of a man that Quirinus knows he is these days.

Salazar is not entirely honest with him, but he’s more than aware that the other man is mourning for something or someone, and whatever, exactly, it is, its loss has been a terribly hard blow to take. In actuality, Quirinus somewhat doubts that he has even seen Salazar at his worst, but perhaps it is promising that Salazar _can_ muster the energy to put up such facades as the one he wears now. A few months ago, even this was not possible.

“Quirinus,” Salazar declares, shaking him from his reverie and beckoning him over; Quirinus removes his disillusionment charm and crosses the Fudge-free foyer to his Lord’s side as Salazar gestures to the front doors. “Walk with me?”

They will not walk for long before Salazar loses the strength for it, but Quirinus will certainly not discourage the exercise while it is still possible, so he merely nods in silent cooperation and falls into step at Salazar’s side.

“Tell me about your conversations after the Wizengamot session today?”

Collecting his thoughts, Quirinus recounts his interaction with Albus Dumbledore and the man’s apparent confusion. There had been a shaken air to the Light Lord when Quirinus left him, and Quirinus suspects that it has something to do with Dumbledore’s prior belief that Lord Slytherin is in fact You-Know-Who returned.

“But he now knows that I am not Mr Riddle?” Salazar checks, nodding in quiet satisfaction when Quirinus confirms it. “And Lucius?”

Quirinus launches straight into their business with the Lord Malfoy, careful not to let a single detail of phrasing or body language slip under the radar; he is fully aware that there will be hidden messages and contexts to Malfoy’s words that he will not have seen himself, and it would not do for Salazar to lose them as well. _This_ – observing and recalling every exact detail down to where Malfoy’s eyes were directed for every single word of the conversation – is what Quirinus is good at. He is in his prime here.

Halfway through the retelling, Salazar starts to waver on his feet, stumbling a little and only escaping an outright fall through Quirinus reaching out to steady him and help him back inside. Briefly, his glamours flicker, a hint of the gaunt, hollow man beneath shining through, but then the moment is gone, the illusion magic firmly back in place as Salazar sinks down into an armchair to drop his head back and pant harshly for breath.

“Perhaps you should let the glamours go?” Quirinus suggests lightly, because that branch of magic certainly _won’t_ be helping with his Lord’s lack of energy, but Salazar only shakes his head, clearly breathless.

“Just… tell me the rest of it,” the other man whispers hoarsely, blinking as if to clear his vision.

With a bitten-off sigh, Quirinus opens his mouth to obey.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning! I hope you're all well and safe in lockdown. It is getting increasinly difficult to phrase essentially the same thing differently each week, but as ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts/opinions/expectations/hopes/critiques/etc. in the comments!

Uncle Salazar’s memory seems to haunt Harry’s every footstep, anything and everything reminding him of the forest they’d run through or the sword Godric had taken or just those _smiles_ , leaving his head aching and his eyes a little damp no matter where he goes or what he does. How does he even _begin_ to compete with that? How much would Uncle Salazar rather be back in the 10th Century than here? How often does he wish that he’d never met Harry in the first place? Does he ever feel outright bitter about it?

The doubts dog Harry’s thoughts for the next week, and he finds himself seeking out Dudley’s silent company to dwell on his troubles in the presence of family. The simple truth is that he cannot live up to those Uncle Salazar has lost; no one can. He’s destined to be second best in his uncle’s eyes forever and, as much as he knows that he can’t change it, the idea hurts.

By the second week, Hermione has taken to joining him, offering company almost as quiet as Dudley’s but with warmth and life alongside. She seems to understand that he doesn’t want to talk about what’s bothering him, merely settling down to read a book in a chair on Dudley’s other side or working on her homework, sometimes offering him some parchment with a quiet reminder of whatever essay it is that they need to get done for the next week. Harry always takes the distraction gratefully, letting the task pull him from his misery for however long it takes him to get it done.

Somewhere around the start of the third week – the last week of February – Hermione starts to meet him outside the Hospital Wing early in the morning, long before breakfast is served, to wait for Madam Pomfrey to let them in. It isn’t long before she starts dragging him out to the castle grounds to walk side-by-side, letting Harry contemplate his issue in silence but always ensuring that he has company, fresh air and exercise to keep his mood from dipping too much.

It’s as they’re just stepping out of the castle one morning in early March that Harry hears the voice, rasping malevolently some way above them.

“ _So hungry… Let me kill you…_ ”

Sudden anger swamps Harry at the sound of it; this is the monster that petrified both Dudley and Cho, and it’s still loose, still roaming the castle and haunting Harry with its murderous soliloquy whenever it emerges from its hiding place.

“ _Shut up_!” he snaps at it, hands clenching into tight fists, then realises what it must look like to Hermione – and that he’s just potentially drawn the voice to their location – and turns to her with wide eyes. “Sorry – that was to the voice. Not you. And we should run.”

She doesn’t protest when he grabs her hand and starts towards the dungeons, merely joining him in pelting across the Entrance Hall and down the steps towards Professor Snape’s office, breaths loud as bullet fire in Harry’s ears and harmonising with Harry’s own gasps for air.

“What were you apologising about?” she demands as they reach the bottom of the first flight of stairs. “All I heard was a hiss!”

That _almost_ stops Harry in his tracks, only the faint echo of the voice up above – it doesn’t seem to be following them actually, which is something – keeping him from stumbling to a halt. If she only heard a hiss when he’s certain he was speaking clearly, then that can only mean that he must have been speaking Parseltongue. Dudley has always told him that he sounds like he’s hissing when he does so – but to slip into it accidentally must mean that…

“It’s a snake!” he realises aloud, his hand tightening involuntarily around Hermione’s even as Professor Snape’s door comes into sight ahead of them. “It must be a snake – that’s why no one else can hear it. It’s speaking Parseltongue!”

“Oh, _Merlin_!” Hermione whispers beside him as they stumble to a halt, Harry lifting his free hand to knock frantically at Professor Snape’s door. “A snake that petrifies people? What sort of snake would…?”

“It doesn’t _mean_ to petrify people,” Harry points out breathlessly, even as the lock on the door clicks and it starts to swing open, Professor Snape staring down at them both with a raised eyebrow. “Sir, the voice – it’s out again; it’s going up. And we think –”

“We think it’s Parseltongue,” Hermione fills in for him as he tries to catch his breath, Professor Snape already stepping aside to let them in. “Which means it’s a snake that petrifies people –”

“But it’s trying to kill them,” Harry jumps back in as his brain whirs onwards, connections forming almost more quickly than he can grasp at them. “So a snake that kills people or, failing that, petrifies them, which would be –”

“A basilisk,” Professor Snape fills in, the two words quiet and utterly serious as he shuts the door to his office and bolts it firmly. “Sit down, both of you.”

Harry drops straight into a seat, blowing out a breath as he scrubs a hand over his eyes. The voice has faded into the distance, somewhere up near the top of the castle, but last he heard, it didn’t seem on the verge of attempting to kill someone, which is something.

“A basilisk,” Professor Snape repeats, “And you understand it as a Parselmouth. Tell me, Harry, have you thought to ask your uncle about this?”

At once, Harry stiffens, uncaring that Hermione is here with them when Professor Snape is suggesting that Uncle Salazar might really be the root of this.

“My uncle wouldn’t do this!” he retorts defensively. “He doesn’t have a problem with muggleborns – he told you that himself! He wouldn’t –”

“He might have… _done_ it for a different purpose,” Professor Snape points out, eyes flitting briefly over to where Hermione sits, watching them in quiet confusion, “And if it is not his doing, then he may have some knowledge of it regardless.”

Hesitantly, Harry backs down to think it over.

“Maybe,” he concedes. “I’ll send him a letter today.”

“Harry?” Hermione hedges, audibly hesitant. “Why would your uncle…?”

For several seconds, Harry struggles for an answer. He doesn’t want to lie to her, and yet he can’t reveal Uncle Salazar’s secrets without permission; it wouldn’t be safe, nor would it be right.

“It’s… complicated,” he settles for, twisting carefully to meet her eyes. “It’s not really my place to tell you about it.”

To his relief, she nods in understanding after only a few seconds of examining him closely, offering a small, reassuring smile which he returns with ease.

“The two of you will have to stay here while I go to investigate,” Professor Snape tells them, interrupting their silent communication as he reaches for the lock on the door. “Again, Harry, do not open the door for anyone other than myself – and remember to check that it is indeed me.”

Harry nods and watches him leave, standing to lock the door once he has disappeared down the corridor.

“Now we wait, then, I guess,” he huffs as he sits back down, shifting nervously in his seat as he tries and fails to get comfortable.

There’s a _basilisk_ inside Hogwarts. For at least four months, there has been a giant killer snake with a murderous gaze roaming the castle – and somehow, it hasn’t killed anyone.

How _hasn’t it killed anyone?_

He doesn’t realise that he’s spoken aloud until Hermione sighs.

“They must not have looked at its eyes directly,” she offers, though Harry’s fairly sure that she isn’t providing that as a final answer, but merely thinking aloud; _that_ much is obvious, after all. “I mean… Well, there was a puddle of water on the floor when Mrs Norris was petrified, so maybe that could have created a reflection or something? Then… Oh, the camera that First-Year had, possibly?”

Harry racks his brains to work out how Cho and Dudley could have avoided death, trying to ignore the thought that they both survived by chance alone.

“The snitch!” he announces, realisation dawning. “Cho had that snitch. Dudley… I don’t know about him – or the Fat Friar…”

“They were petrified at the same time, weren’t they?” Hermione muses. “So probably the same thing, or – oh! Well, a ghost can’t exactly die, can it? Dudley could have seen _through_ the Fat Friar!”

Nodding slowly, Harry thinks it over. It sounds plausible, at least.

“Does that mean we’ll have to carry mirrors everywhere?” Hermione adds uncertainly. “That sounds horribly inconvenient.”

“Better than dying,” Harry reasons, earning a shaky laugh from his friend, though the sound tails off quickly as Hermione buries her face in her hands.

“There’s a basilisk in the school,” she announces, words muffled by her palms. “Moaning Myrtle must have looked right at it – if that really _is_ how she died.”

Harry lifts his thumb to chew anxiously at the nail, thinking over the idea as his other hand taps nervously against his thigh. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to assume that ‘Moaning Myrtle’ _did_ die from meeting the basilisk’s gaze, especially given how much luck seems to have been involved in everyone else surviving.

“We never did go back to her bathroom,” he ventures, Hermione nodding. “I completely forgot about it.”

“I didn’t want to remind you,” she admits. “You didn’t seem very… Well, you’ve seemed quite upset, lately.”

Swallowing back the lump that rises automatically in his throat at the reminder of _why_ he’s been so upset recently, Harry nods jerkily and draws in a breath to answer, only to freeze at the sound of a knock on the door.

“Harry, I don’t have time to come in!” Professor Snape calls. “You both need to go to your common rooms at once, understood? Harry, ask me something quickly, because I need to go.”

Harry flounders, searching for something that he can ask in Hermione’s presence, and comes up with:

“What did you say when I first asked you to call me Harry?”

For a second, only silence reigns, and Harry feels his breath catch even though he knows that it isn’t exactly the easiest thing to recall.

“Next year, Mr Potter,” Professor Snape supplies to his relief.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks as he opens the door, peering out to find Professor Snape already striding back towards the stairs.

“A student has been taken into the chamber,” Professor Snape calls over his shoulder, and then the man is gone, disappearing around a corner as Harry gapes after him.

“What is it?” Hermione demands, hand settling on his shoulder. “Has someone _died_?”

Harry’s throat works soundlessly as he tries to summon an answer. A student has been taken into the chamber – which can only mean the Chamber of Secrets, or whatever it really is. They’ve worked out most of what would be needed to sort this all out, but they’re too late – just like Uncle Salazar was too late to stop himself from being dragged through time again.

Harry would be an idiot not to learn from something like that.

“I don’t know,” he tells Hermione seriously, “But a student has been taken by the monster. And we have a pretty good idea of where it is.”

Hurriedly, he fumbles for his mirror.

“Harry, you _can’t_ be –”

“Salazar Potter,” he announces, waiting desperately for his uncle to appear, but all the mirror shows is darkness, with no sign of Uncle Salazar at all.

_What the fuck?_

“He’s not answering,” Harry mutters. “We need to tell a teacher, at _least_. We should’ve told Professor Snape while he was still…”

Hermione’s jaw tightens.

“Alright,” she agrees stiffly, reaching for his hand to tug him from Professor Snape’s office. “We’ll find a teacher. We’ll tell them everything we know, and _then_ we go to our common rooms. Alright?”

“Of course,” Harry agrees, relieved, and holds up his mirror as it reverts back to its usual reflective state. “We’ll use this, shall we?”

Nodding in agreement, they back their way down the corridor, watching for any sign of the basilisk as they go. Harry’s heart thunders in his chest, blood pulsing desperately through his veins as he tries to keep his nervous breathing to a minimum; each exhale seems to echo around them, a beacon to attract any and all threats to their location, as much as he knows that it’s just his mind playing tricks. All the while, he keeps his ears pinned for any hint of the monster’s voice, but nothing comes, only their own shuffling footsteps rustling around them.

“Harry? Hermione?”

Draco’s voice has him jumping, Hermione flinching at his side as the blond frowns at them.

“What are you doing here? Hermione, you should be in the common room!”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Harry returns, unable to keep a note of suspicion from his tone.

“Looking for Hermione,” Draco answers at once. “I saw she wasn’t there; I was going to head to the library and find her, but… Why are you walking so strangely?”

“It’s a basilisk,” Hermione tells him bluntly. “Harry can understand it, so we realised it was speaking Parseltongue, and… Well, it’s just a matter of steps from that.”

Slowly, Draco lifts his chin in a gesture of mildly bemused acknowledgement.

“So you’re avoiding looking at it directly?” he fills in, lips twitching just a little. “Harry’s wearing glasses.”

_Oh_. Harry feels his cheeks heat up with realisation as Draco looks between the two of them incredulously. His glasses are such a constant that he forgets their existence, sometimes.

“You two are supposed to be _smart_!” Draco exclaims, a note of slightly hysterical amusement in his tone. “Well, come on, Hermione. We’ll get back to the…”

He trails off at the shake of Hermione’s head.

“We think we know where it is,” she explains for the both of them, casting a nervous glance in Harry’s direction. “We’re going find a teacher.”

Draco stares at them both blankly for several seconds, then blows out a lungful of explosive frustration.

“Fine,” he declares. “I’m not going back alone, so… Hermione, do you think you can transfigure something into glass…?”

Biting her lip, Hermione looks around hesitantly.

“I can try bits of our robes?” she offers. “We could tear patches off and hold them up.”

Draco grimaces, clearly not liking that suggestion, but nods all the same and holds out his arm towards Harry.

“Could you…?”

Wincing guiltily, Harry rips a strip of obviously expensive fabric from Draco’s sleeve, repeating the action with Hermione’s free arm as she transfigures the first piece to glass. Soon, both Hermione and Draco are holding up oddly-shaped sheets of glass before their eyes as they move onwards, towards the stairs and then to the staffroom. To Harry’s horror, however, none of the teachers are there.

“They must be sorting everything out,” Hermione whispers as they hover in the hallway outside. “We need to find someone. But –”

“Harry!”

_Just the last person we need_ , Harry thinks miserably, turning towards the man now striding down the corridor towards them. Honestly, he thinks he’d rather have been faced with the basilisk than Lockhart at the moment.

“Neville!” Hermione gasps, Harry blinking as he realises that their friend is indeed on Lockhart’s heels, a very long-suffering expression fixed onto his face. “What are you doing here?”

“I was looking after some plants in Greenhouse One,” Neville explains, shooting a small glare at Lockhart before adding, “And Professor Lockhart came to take me up to the common room.”

“Excellent!” Draco announces before anyone else can speak. “We’ll come with you.”

“Now, I’m not sure –” Lockhart begins, frowning, but Draco cuts him off even as Hermione reaches out to tear a strip from Neville’s sleeve and transfigure it, their friend cooperating in bemused silence.

“But Sir, I’ve been wanting to ask you about some of your incredible adventures; there are some which I think are just _so_ underrated, and I’m _dying_ to hear more about them…”

“You know,” Hermione whispers as they start moving again, shooting a meaningful look in Harry’s direction, “He _is_ a teacher. He might not be brilliant, but surely he must have _some_ ability, or he’d never have made it through the hiring process. We could always tell him about Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”

Harry considers the idea, mulling over the pros and cons in his head as he tries to decide whether he trusts Lockhart enough for even that. On the one hand, Hermione is right that there must be _something_ that Lockhart is good – or at least adequate – at, but on the other, the man hasn’t even noticed that they’re holding up strips of glass in front of their eyes, and his performance a few months ago in the short-lived duelling club still sticks close to the front of Harry’s mind.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly as they pass the first floor. “But only if we don’t see another teacher on the way.”

“You know, Professor,” Draco announces loudly ahead of them, “I think we can make it from here. Thank you for your _wonderful_ help, but I’m sure you have much better things to be doing with your time – a man like you can’t _really_ be expected to spend your time child-minding…”

“Yes, yes…” Lockhart agrees, nodding and preening visibly as Harry tries to decide whether or not to intervene and keep Lockhart around even though he’d probably only be useful as cannon fodder. “Yes, you’re right. Of course you are – you can certainly make it from here.”

“You’ve taught us how to handle ourselves well enough, haven’t you?” Draco presses.

“Very correct, Mr Malfoy…” Lockhart muses, already with his back half-turned, ready to wander off down the corridor.

“So much for that idea,” Harry murmurs to Hermione, who rolls her eyes with a sigh but doesn’t seem too put out.

The question is, what do they do now?

“So where is it you think the monster is?” Draco asks them. “Forget about finding a teacher – can’t you just call your uncle? He seems like a capable wizard, and he has his ways to get here, doesn’t he? _And_ he’s a Parselmouth.”

“He’s not answering when I try talking to him through the mirror,” Harry admits slowly, though he has to concede that Uncle Salazar really would be the best person to deal with this.

“Then try the Floo network,” Draco suggests, a little more desperate. “We just need a fireplace and some Floo powder – your house _is_ connected, isn’t it?”

“Yes…” Harry allows, although he can’t help but feel that this is all a little convoluted compared to just finding a teacher to tell. “Sorry, why are we bothering with this rather than…?”

Draco takes a deep breath, seeming to steel himself; Harry watches his friend’s jaw work in confused silence, trying to decipher Draco’s emotions to little success.

“I think,” the blond starts carefully, “That my father may have accidentally caused this. He had an object that he wanted to get rid of, and I think it might be part of the problem. Some of the letters he’s sent lately… Well, I trust your uncle not to pin all the blame on him more than I trust any teacher – even Professor Snape. So _please_ …?”

Harry grits his teeth, but Draco’s eyes are wide and anxious, the plea within them obvious, and really, what sort of friend would he be if he knowingly fed Draco’s father to the dogs?

“Fine,” he sighs. “But how are we going to get…?”

“The staffroom,” Neville fills in, speaking for the first time despite the confusion still clear in his frown. “If there _is_ a teacher there, then we talk to them. If not, then we write a letter, send it through the Floo network, and hope that your uncle sees it.”

Lifting a hand to rub over his eyes beneath his glasses, Harry nods tiredly.

“We’ll do that then,” he agrees. “Let’s go.”

On the way back to the staffroom, Hermione fills Neville in on the situation, Draco muttering a shocked curse under his breath when she reveals that a student has been taken into the chamber. Harry ignores them all, hurrying on to the staffroom to slip inside and start writing the letter as soon as he has checked to make sure that it’s empty.

_Uncle Salazar,_

_There’s a basilisk loose in the school. We think it’s hiding in the girls’ toilets on the second floor. It has taken one of the other students away._

“Oh,” Neville murmurs softly as he files in behind Hermione. “I think I know who it is.”

_Please come and help as soon as you can._

“Who?” Draco demands at once, and Harry finds himself glancing up, curious.

Neville looks around at them all, lips tugging miserably downwards.

“Ron Weasley. Lockhart said we were the only two students unaccounted for.”

Weasley. Harry hasn’t actually spoken to him since the first time they met, besides their demonstrative duel back in December – and he’s not sure anyone else talks to the other boy much, either. He always seems fairly isolated, and that’s probably what allowed the monster to snatch him away.

“I know no one really likes him that much,” Neville adds, chewing his lip, “But he _was_ my friend for a bit, even if he wasn’t exactly… nice about our traditions. I don’t know if I could live with knowing he died because none of us would talk to him.”

Clearly, Harry isn’t the only one thinking about the impact that Weasley’s loner tag might have had on this situation. Even worse is that Harry can’t shake the thought that maybe that treatment is his fault, because he blew Weasley off at the first insult and he’s fairly sure that’s why the other boy never got involved with their study group. Might Weasley have had other friends around if he had attended?

“We’ll just have to hope that Harry’s uncle gets here soon, then,” Draco declares firmly, glancing in Harry’s direction; Neville doesn’t seem particularly comforted. “Get the letter sent quickly, Harry.”

Distractedly, Harry nods, but already, his mind is ticking over. Uncle Salazar will get this letter soon, hopefully, but it might not be soon enough to save Weasley – assuming he’s even still alive now – if no one else does anything. If nothing else, they could be completely wrong about where the monster is, and if they don’t check, then that could waste much-needed time.

_We (me, Hermione, Neville and Draco) are going there to make sure we’re right and maybe stall for time if we have to. I promise that we’ll try to stay out of too much danger. Please come quick._

Folding the letter, he scribbles down the address, crosses to the fireplace and takes a small handful of Floo powder, throwing it into the flames. Then carefully, he sets the letter in and whispers the right address, stepping back to watch it whisked away into the Floo network.

“Come on,” he announces, brushing specs of ash and Floo powder from his robes. “We’re going to the second floor.”

“The second floor?” Hermione echoes. “Harry, are you _mad_? All we need to do is wait for your uncle!”

“Who might take a little while to get the letter and read it,” Harry fills in grimly, determination swelling inside him as Neville nods in relieved agreement. “Weasley could die in that time. We can make sure we’re right about where it is and maybe just give Uncle Salazar a bit more time to get here.”

“Let’s go,” Neville agrees at once, eyes lighting up with fierce conviction. “I’m not letting Ron die because of _my_ mistakes. You two don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

His last sentence is directed towards Draco and Hermione, who both shift nervously.

“Harry, Neville…” Hermione sighs, but seems to realise that neither of them are about to let her sway them. “Well, if you two are going, I am too. Draco…?”

Draco gnaws at his lip, seemingly torn.

“Fine,” he bites out. “But _only_ to make sure we’re right about where it is. Then we go.”

On the way up to the second floor, Harry sees no teachers whatsoever. Likely, they are all busy with other students or trying to arrange whatever safety precautions they feel the need to put in place – _or the travel to send everyone home_ , Harry thinks. Still, the corridors seem eerily silent without anyone else around, and Harry finds himself shifting unconsciously closer to Hermione as they near Moaning Myrtle’s toilet. She glances over at him, offering a nervous smile in return which does little to relax him.

Outside the door to the second-floor girls’ bathroom, Harry pauses briefly, glancing around at his friends to make sure that they’re ready, and realises that they’re all still holding their strips of glass up to their eyes.

“Let me try something?” he requests cautiously, and when they nod, he lifts his wand to cast the same spell as he uses to keep his glasses on while flying.

To his utter delight, the glass settles against their faces securely, wrapping around almost like a transparent visor, and when Hermione cautiously removes her hand, it stays there.

“That’s brilliant!” she beams, then seems to remember the situation, face falling as she draws in a deep breath. “Shall we…?”

Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom is absolutely flooded. Water coats the tiles beneath their feet, splashing lightly as they walk, and for several seconds, Harry can only gape around at the mess in shocked silence, but is soon startled from his trance by the young ghost who flounces out from within a cubicle to fold her arms and glare fiercely at them.

“This is a _girls_ ’ bathroom,” she tells them pointedly. “What do you want?”

Nervously, Harry glances at his friends to be met with their expectant stares; he hadn’t expected much different, in all honesty.

“We, uh… We wanted to ask you how you – how you died, if you don’t mind,” he tells her hesitantly, because it seems like a good place to start, and is unprepared for the way she brightens.

“Oh, it was absolutely _dreadful_ ,” she tells them eagerly. “It happened in that cubicle over there; I remember it so well. I was crying because Olive Hornby had teased me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and _then_ I heard somebody come in – a _boy_. He said something funny – in a different language, I think – and I unlocked the door to tell him to go away, and then…”

She pauses dramatically, staring around at the four of them with shining eyes.

“I _died_.”

As interesting as Harry is sure that the story he’s just heard is meant to be, it doesn’t really tell him much.

“How?” he asks carefully.

“No idea,” Myrtle admits, voice lowered theatrically, and Harry has to wonder exactly how miserable she has been since her death that _this_ is what she finds enjoyment in. “I just remember seeing a pair of great big yellow eyes…”

Harry glances at Hermione as the ghost continues, sharing a nod with her. That seems like a fairly reasonable confirmation that the monster is indeed a basilisk, if he remembers the tales that Uncle Salazar has told him about various magical creatures correctly.

“Where did you see the eyes, exactly?” he ventures when Myrtle has finished her little speech about returning to haunt her bully.

“Oh…” Myrtle trails off, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of the sink opposite the cubicle she’d died in. “Somewhere there, I suppose.”

It doesn’t take much examination of the sink to find a small engraving of a snake on one of the taps, which Harry supposes is a fair sign that they _could_ be in the right place, but certainly doesn’t prove anything. It could, after all, just be graffiti from some random Slytherin student.

“I’m going to try saying something in Parseltongue,” he warns his friends, gesturing for them to back up.

If his uncle _did_ create this, then Parseltongue seems like a reasonable method by which to access the monster’s lair, especially with the monster in question being a basilisk and Myrtle mentioning some sort of strange language. The only question is, what to say? ‘Open’ seems like a fairly safe bet, he supposes.

Drawing in a deep breath, he closes his eyes and focuses, drawing his abilities as a Parselmouth to the surface.

“ _Open_ ,” he hisses, then remembers how much of a stickler Uncle Salazar can be for manners sometimes and adds, “ _Please?_ ”

The tap glows brilliantly, white light streaming from it as it begins to spin, the sink dropping slowly out of sight to expose an incredibly large section of pipe, which then starts to form bumps, a little like steps, all the way down. Harry watches, quietly awed, as the muck clinging to the inside of the pipe seems to drain away in seconds, leaving a clean, dry passageway which probably isn’t walkable but could, he thinks, be quite comfortably shuffled down with the help of the steps.

“Well…” Hermione breathes, eyes wide. “That’ll be the entrance, then, I suppose.”

Throat dry, Harry can only nod.

“Alright, that’s that,” Draco declares, though he doesn’t move from where he stands, seemingly as transfixed by the passage as the rest of them. “That’s all we were going to do.”

He sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself of that than the rest of them.

Harry hesitates, thinking of his promise to Uncle Salazar not to go looking for trouble, and then of Ron Weasley, possibly dead, possibly dying, and of Dudley and Cho, both lying frozen in the Hospital Wing. For a brief moment, another face flashes through his mind, split by a brilliant grin, a gleam of excitement and hunger for adrenaline in unfamiliar eyes.

“I’m going down there,” he declares. “You don’t have to come with me if you don’t –”

“I’m going,” Neville announces at once, Hermione nodding her agreement, and after a beat of hesitation, Draco echoes her action.

“Alright,” Harry nods, sucking in a breath. “Let’s do this, shall we?”

The journey down the pipe is slow and careful, lit by Hermione’s ‘ _Lumos_ ’ at the back of the group. Harry settles himself at the front, wand pointed forward as he readies himself to cast anything that might protect them from whatever could appear before them. Fortunately, nothing comes as they twist this way and that, moving ever downwards until Harry is certain that they must be far below the school itself, and eventually, the pipe opens out into a slightly damp stone tunnel, allowing them to stand before they hit the uncleaned floor of the new passageway.

“Right,” Harry whispers, as much to himself as to his friends. “Onwards, then.”

Onwards, then, they go, creeping through the gloom as quietly as possible, the light of Hermione’s wand lowered to the absolute minimum so as not to attract any more attention than absolutely necessary. Harry almost doesn’t dare breathe, for fear of the basilisk – or the Heir – hearing his shuddering, terrified gasps.

A loud crunch from behind has him freezing, his heartrate spiking until Draco retches quietly.

“I think I just stood on a _skull_ ,” the blond whispers, which actually doesn’t make Harry feel any better. “A… rat skull? Some kind of rodent.”

“Maybe start with that next time?” Hermione mutters, a slightly hysterical note to her words, and Harry manages a shaky nod of agreement even though he doubts that any of the other three will see it.

“ _Shh_!” Neville hisses suddenly, reaching out to grab Harry just as he’s about to continue walking. “Guys, uh…”

Harry follows the line of Neville’s trembling finger with no small amount of dread, turning to spot the coiled _thing_ outlined in the darkness, stretched across the path some way away.

“Is that…?” Draco starts, high-pitched and nervous.

“Shh!” Hermione repeats, clamping a hand over Draco’s mouth; he shakes her off quickly, but doesn’t speak again as she continues at a whisper. “Harry, what are you…?”

Harry waves her down, continuing to tiptoe his way over to the mound of serpentine coils, because although he cannot see much down here, the way it is sitting doesn’t seem _quite_ right. Indeed, close up, it’s easy enough to recognise it as just an enormous snakeskin, viciously green and sickeningly long. Basilisk skin, Harry remembers as he beckons his friends over, can last for years like this, so it’s hard to tell how long it has been here. The thought that the creature could have grown since is utterly horrifying.

“It’s a snakeskin,” he tells them quietly. “We’ll just… pick our way around it and keep going.”

He receives a series of shaky nods in return, and together they make their way carefully around the basilisk skin, trying to avoid touching it even through their clothing; Harry is fairly sure that it wouldn’t be poisonous, but he doesn’t plan on finding out.

It’s another two minutes after that of near-silent walking that the tunnel comes to a sudden stop, the way blocked by a solid expanse of stone with two intertwined snakes engraved upon it, gleaming emeralds set into unsettlingly lifelike eyes. There’s only one thing for it.

“ _Open, please,_ ” Harry hisses, and as the serpents slide apart, the wall seeming to split in two, he beckons his friends forwards, into the chamber.

Inside, it takes him a moment to gather his bearings, examining the dimly lit interior of a long, narrow room supported by towering columns of smooth stone, each engraved in a similar manner to the entrance. There is no basilisk in sight, but as Harry steps further into the murky greenness, he catches sight of a strange statue towering above the far end of the chamber and, between its feet, a black stone tablet – and a small, redheaded figure.

“Ron!” Neville breathes, but Draco reaches out to hold him back when he takes a step forward, and together, they creep on, until Harry spots another figure, this one unfamiliar, standing with hands clasped behind their back as they stare back across the hall.

“Well, hello,” the stranger – a boy in Slytherin uniform but apparently unknown to both Hermione and Draco – greets, tilting his head to the side to watch them in apparent curiosity. “And who might _you_ be?”

“I think,” Harry starts warily, glancing towards Weasley’s limp form and relaxing only slightly when he sees the other boy’s chest shift with a breath, “That we’d rather ask you that first.”

“Ah,” the stranger smiles, apparently uncaring of the mistiness of his own form; he doesn’t seem quite _there_. “In that case, I am Tom Riddle. I was a student here at Hogwarts some time ago.”

“You’re not a ghost,” Harry ventures carefully, narrowing his eyes. “But you’re not…”

“I am a memory,” Riddle explains calmly, gesturing to a small, black book lying close to Weasley. “Preserved inside that diary for fifty years.”

Fifty years is how long it has been since the chamber last opened, Harry remembers, taking a wary step back and then to the side, slowly circling around towards Weasley without turning his back. Every piece of available evidence points towards Riddle being the supposed Heir of whoever or whatever.

“What is this place?” he hears himself ask, fishing for more information even as Hermione crouches to feel for Weasley’s pulse and shake him gently; the boy doesn’t wake.

“This?” Riddle chuckles. “This is the Chamber of Secrets. My ancestor built this, to purify the school if it was ever overrun by too much _vermin_.”

He spits the last word, a sneer marring his otherwise handsome face, but Harry is too busy trying to work out if Riddle really believes that he is not only descended from Uncle Salazar, but that Uncle Salazar hates muggleborns and would _ever_ have built this place to kill students.

“And who is your ancestor?” he asks, wondering silently if picking up the diary would incite aggression from Riddle – probably, so it’s best not to risk it yet.

Riddle’s eyebrows rise in faint incredulity.

“You must surely have heard the legend?” he returns, gesturing up to the giant statue as Harry’s heart sinks. “The great Salazar Slytherin, of course.”

Harry glances up at the statue and has to bite back a laugh, because it looks absolutely _nothing_ like Uncle Salazar – nor even like Uncle Salazar might appear if old. Whatever the identity of this strange figure, it is most certainly _not_ Harry’s uncle, which luckily soothes his ire at the accusations aimed towards Uncle Salazar himself.

“I’m sorry,” Draco cuts in suddenly, “But it seems quite obvious to me that you’re the fabled Heir of Slytherin – and as a Slytherin myself, it’s really quite an honour to meet you – but how have you been releasing the basilisk to perform such an admirable task when you aren’t exactly, well… corporeal?”

For a moment, Harry considers shaking Draco and asking what the hell he’s up to, especially with Hermione staring at the blond with hurt visible in her features, but then he sees the way that Riddle’s chest has puffed up a little, a smirk adorning the other boy’s features. _Right_ , of course it’s a ploy.

“Why, haven’t you guessed?” Riddle asks smugly. “Ron Weasley has been opening the Chamber of Secrets. He’s been writing in my diary since the very start of the school year – pouring his heart out to me about how _lonely_ he is, so isolated and alone as the youngest brother of _far_ too many children… I’ve been such a _wonderful_ friend for him to talk to, always there when no one else cared, you see. He poured out his soul to me, and _that_ happened to be exactly what I wanted. All of his darkest secrets and deepest fears – did you know that he’s scared of spiders? Oh, but absolutely _petrified_ by the thought of being abandoned.”

Riddle’s laugh, cold and an octave too high, sends shivers down Harry’s spine as he listens in silence, understanding just starting to filter through. He has to admit that this was a good idea of Draco’s; not only does it stall for time, but it explains a lot more than Harry thinks they’d ever have had a chance of knowing otherwise.

“Eventually, I grew powerful enough to start pouring a little bit of _my_ soul back into Mr Weasley,” Riddle continues. “He was so _frightened_ when he realised that he was starting to lose pieces of his memory. That, of course, was _nothing_ compared to when he confessed that he thought he was the culprit! ‘I think _I’m_ the one attacking the muggleborns, Tom.’ ‘What if I attacked the half-blood girl because she’s a Quidditch rival?’ Like she was anything other than an unfortunate accident. It was absolutely glorious, but of course, I couldn’t survive on that forever. No, I needed something _more_ to really _live_.”

“Weasley’s life?” Draco fills in, humming in thought, though Harry thinks he can see a hint of nausea in the blond’s pale face as it flickers in the green light. “You’re going to devour his soul altogether, to revive yourself. There won’t even be anything left to move on, will there?”

“Very clever…” Riddle muses, lips twisting into a smirk as Harry swallows back the acid rising in his throat. “Very clever indeed. Unfortunately, though, not quite clever enough. I can see what you’re trying to do; you’re trying to distract me. For what reason, I’m not quite sure – though I doubt you really have a plan. You’re down here all alone, you know? No one else knows where you are. I can tell. You wouldn’t be down here in the first place if any of the teachers knew. There’s no one to save you.”

Draco’s already-ghostly features whiten further as Riddle’s malicious smile grows.

“It’s time, I think, to end this conversation. You’ve done well to find the chamber, but somehow I doubt you’ll survive long against a _basilisk_.”

Riddle turns, striding away from them, and Harry leans down to swipe up the diary and tuck it into his robes while the other’s back is turned, gesturing for his friends to back away with Weasley. Together, they flee towards the far end of the chamber as quickly as they can, Harry taking over from Hermione to aid Neville in dragging Weasley along as soon as he notices that she is struggling.

“ _Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four,_ ” Riddle hisses behind him, and Harry risks a glance back just in time to see the statue’s enormous mouth open to form a huge hole of pitch blackness.

_That_ , he realises faintly as the rustle of something slithering seems to echo throughout the chamber, _Must be where the basilisk is._

“Behind this pillar!” Hermione hisses, dragging them all behind one of the large stone columns in the room. “What do we _do_? Harry, will it listen to you, do you think?”

Harry shakes his head frantically, fighting the urge to peer around the pillar and see what is happening.

“I don’t want to risk attracting its attention,” he whispers, swallowing down the lump that forms in his throat as a thud reverberates around the chamber, as though something large and horribly heavy has just hit the floor. “I think the best thing we can do for now is stay as quiet as possible.”

_And just hope that Uncle Salazar can save us._

“If we die, I’m going to haunt the Weasleys for all time!” Draco mutters as quietly as possible. “We have a blood feud with them, you know – I’m _not_ going to die saving one of them!”

If the situation weren’t so serious, Harry might have laughed. As it is, all he can do is sit and hope that the aforementioned family of redheads _don’t_ end up with a malicious spectre making their lives miserable for centuries to come.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning; I hope you are all well.
> 
> I normally stay away from going too far into my personal life on here - you'd have to read my AO3-users-only fics for that - but, honestly, so much has happened/is happening that I don't think I could bear not saying something, so to sum it all up: I've had my first appointment with the GIC and only need to do a few more things before I can start T; I'm really noticing the improvement of my mental health right now, since the start of lockdown and therapy by way of Zoom; and it's A-Level Results Day in Five. Days. Time. I've got a whole plan partially set out for the day, though it still needs work; I'll waking up pre-six o'clock to go to the local river for a swim, but I'm not sure when I'm going to open my results. I know I'll get them at eight, but I might wait a little long, until I can check UCAS first. I also have a twin getting results at the same time, but from a different educational institute, meaning that she's staying at home and getting hers by email while I have to go in, so I'm not quite sure when we'll be telling each other what we've got.
> 
> At any rate, I hope you enjoy, and my sincerest (well, perhaps not) apologies for the cliffhanger last week:

When the letter flies out of the fireplace, Petunia ignores it and continues to clean. Over the last few years, she has learnt a lot of household spells to complete her various chores within a matter of minutes, but there is something oddly therapeutic about taking a cloth and scrubbing for oneself, watching the dirt vanish from a window through hard work and dedication alone. Certainly, whenever she feels stressed, it’s one of the first activities that she turns to in order to soothe herself and, since finding out that Dudley has been petrified, she won’t deny that she has indeed been feeling stressed.

It isn’t every day that your son’s school writes to tell you that your son has been attacked by an unknown monster and that, while it is indeed treatable, the resources needed are not yet available – never mind that your nephew is still at risk of attack. Suffice to say, the last few months have been a little tense in the Dursley household.

Eventually, the windows are thoroughly cleaned, and Petunia turns her attention to the letter, prepared to sweep away the ash on the carpet then take the letter up to Salazar – any letter coming through the Floo network will be for Salazar – only to realise that the address scribbled on the folded parchment is in Harry’s writing. Quickly, she opens it and scans through the contents, feeling her face drain of all colour and warmth as her eyes flicker back through it again, and then again.

Harry is going after the monster that attacked Dudley. _Harry is going after the monster._

Dropping her cleaning equipment, she runs from the room and takes the stairs two at a time, dread pooling in her stomach. _Not Harry as well, please not Harry_ as well _…_

“Salazar!” she calls, rapping frantically on the door to the man’s room and shoving it forcefully open when she gets no reply.

Inside, it is as dark as ever, and when she flicks on the light to find Salazar lying on his back on top of his neatly-made bed, hands folded over his abdomen, he doesn’t react, gaze not flickering from the ceiling for even a second.

“Salazar. You need to get up.”

Her voice is hoarse, breathless from panic and exertion, and still, he does not even spare her a blink.

“Salazar, Harry _needs_ you –”

“Harry does not need me,” he cuts her off, and his voice rasps just like hers, but his from misuse. “He is fine.”

“He will _always_ need you,” Petunia grits out, tears of frustration and worry pricking at her eyelids as the letter crumples in her fist, “But right now, it’s urgent.”

When Salazar doesn’t react, she presses on, waving the parchment at him.

“He’s going after a _basilisk_. He’s asking you to come – he needs you, _now_.”

“A basilisk?” Salazar demands, and suddenly he’s sitting up, pushing up to a standing position with a weak groan; Petunia has to step forward to steady him as he wavers, one hand rising to clutch at his temples. “Let me – I need to see –”

She hands him the letter wordlessly, waiting in impatient silence as he reads through the short message, and if she’d been worried before, then the dropping of his features makes everything a thousand times worse.

“ _Shit_ ,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment and blowing out a breath. “We’re out of Purifying Potion, aren’t we?”

“We are,” she confirms quietly, biting her lip as he nods in silence.

“Alright,” he mutters, drawing in a lungful of air to replace that which he lost a moment ago. “I can’t – I’ll be useless if I don’t – _Think_ , you fucking bastard…”

Petunia waits anxiously, internally pleading for him to do something – _anything_ – but refusing to get her hopes up after seeing him waste slowly away for the last six months. Suddenly, he jerks away from her, out of her grasp, and before she can react, he’s gone, leaving behind only the sharp crack of apparition and a small shift in the air.

For a moment, she can only stand there, slumped in desperate relief, but then the situation filters back into her mind with the realisation that, if nothing else, she should certainly call Vernon and let him know. If the worst does come – and she prays to God that it will not – then he should be prepared for it.

On arriving at his destination, Salazar manages only a glimpse of his surroundings – just enough to confirm that his apparition was successful – before the pulsing spike of pain in his skull returns, driving itself into his brain as he staggers under the force of it and lifts a hand to clutch at his head.

“Salazar, what –?”

Salazar lifts a hand to silence Severus, taking a moment to breathe and ensure that he is not about to throw up before opening his mouth to speak.

“I need something for a hangover. _Now_.”

To his credit, Severus moves at once, rifling through his cupboard to retrieve a vial of familiarly pink liquid in seconds. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have enough mercy to do so in silence and save Salazar the additional pain.

“You apparated while _intoxicated_? Do you even care how dangerous –?”

“Not as dangerous as Harry going after a basilisk,” Salazar tells him curtly, downing the foul-tasting potion in one and grimacing as it slides down his throat, “Which is apparently what he’s done.”

“He _what_?” Severus demands; Salazar holds out the letter for him to read, which he does so in a matter of seconds. “For _Merlin_ ’s… I suppose you’re going after him?”

“Of course,” Salazar replies, wishing faintly that the room would stop spinning. “What else am I supposed to do?”

Severus snorts, looking him up and down. Salazar doesn’t bother to follow the man’s eyes, knowing full well that he looks like a wreck, having barely eaten in weeks and only moved when politically or biologically necessary. Still, he needs to go after Harry and protect his nephew; he’d _never_ forgive himself if Harry were to be harmed, particularly not by his own basilisk. He should have found a reason to come to Hogwarts at the start of the school year and sort out the chamber like he planned to ever since Lucius told him about Riddle’s misuse of it.

“You’re not going alone,” Severus tells him curtly. “If nothing else, you’ll need someone to hold you up.”

Strangely touched, Salazar finds that he can summon no response beside a nod of acceptance, reaching for Severus’ arm when the other man steps towards the door.

“I would close your eyes if I were you,” he offers softly, earning himself a frown of confusion before comprehension dawns and Severus complies wordlessly.

Letting his own eyes slip closed, he pictures the chamber he hasn’t seen in years, tightens his grip on Severus’ arm and _steps_.

The change in temperature is clue enough that he has completed the apparition successfully, and without hesitation, he throws up the largest shield he can, bowing his head and opening his eyes to find the floor first before glancing sideways to spot not only Harry, but his nephew’s friends and another boy – Dudley conspicuously absent – cowering away from his old friend.

“ _Eavan!_ ” he calls, and she freezes at once, mere metres from Harry, her tongue flickering through the air as her eyelids slip automatically closed. “ _What are you doing?_ ”

Her tongue tastes the air again, her tail shifting uncertainly from side-to-side, but Salazar cannot help the feeling that there is something off about her, like a disease rotting her from the inside out.

“ _Salazar?_ ” she questions slowly, and even his name seems different, somehow wrong. “ _I am so hungry… Let me kill… Let me rip them…_ ”

“ _Eavan_ ,” he tries, although he is already quite sure that it is a useless cause, “ _Please, listen to me. You cannot harm the children. It is not the way._ ”

“Who are you?” an unfamiliar voice snarls, Salazar turning to find a shade glowing just beyond his shield, face twisted by a furious sneer. “How _dare_ you seek to command _my_ basilisk?”

“Yours?” Salazar cannot help retorting, anger rising at the unknown being who has dared to try and lay claim to one of his oldest and most loyal friends. “She is not yours. She is her own being. She always has been.”

“ _Salazar…_ ” Eavan rasps, tongue flickering out again. “ _The hunger… I need to kill…_ ”

This is not the Eavan he remembers, and yet it is undoubtedly her. There is some kind of madness to her, he realises; when he reaches his magic out to her, he finds that her very soul is twisted with the malady, leaching her sanity from her. He could hold it at bay, he thinks, but not for long. It would never be a permanent solution, and certainly not a solution she deserves.

“ _Hold on for me, my sweet,_ ” he murmurs softly, edging closer without paying the spirit any further mind; it is trapped on the other side of the shield, and he will deal with it in time. “ _I will make it better for you._ ”

Severus follows blindly, Salazar nudging him in the right direction and allowing himself to be supported towards Eavan, until he is close enough to settle a hand on her scales, running gently over the smooth surface to calm her while he reaches for the corruption of her soul. Slowly, painstakingly, he starts to peel the tendrils away, feeling her relax beneath his palm even as he strains with the effort of holding back the sickening magic.

“ _I have hurt students_ ,” she hisses, pained, and he can manage nothing but a weak hum of acknowledgement. “ _Salazar, I do not know what has become of me – I cannot control myself!_ ”

“ _It is… a – alright_ ,” he gasps out, staggering just a little only for Severus’ arms to tighten around him, holding him up. “ _I am sorry, Eavan. Something has latched itself to your soul. I cannot – I am not strong enough to pull it away entirely_.”

Her entire body slumps with understanding, her tail curling around to stroke him ever so gently with the very tip.

“ _Then do it_ ,” she tells him calmly. “ _I would not harm another student, Salazar. I would rather die by your hand than live an eternity cursed_.”

It is exactly what he hoped she’d say, but that does not stop it hurting. She is, he realises faintly, all he has left from his life before the second time-travel incident; losing her will be hard enough, but to lose his last connection to Godric will be agony, and he is not sure that he will survive himself.

Still, it is what must be done to save Harry – and to save Eavan herself, who does not deserve any of this.

“ _Then I would ask you to hold still_ ,” he murmurs gently, stretching out his free hand and focusing until a familiarly cold weight settles in his palm.

Only when he glances down to see the rubies encrusted on the hilt does he realise that it is Godric’s sword he has summoned to him. _How fitting._

“ _Sleep peacefully, my friend_.”

As the sword drives through her skull, her muscles spasm briefly beneath his hand before falling lax, her tail slumping against his feet as tears well in his eyes. He can feel her soul slip through his fingers, the curse falling away as she moves on, the last of his ties to Godric gone in but an instant. At once, he wants to crumble, but Harry isn’t safe yet, with that spirit growing ever stronger nearby, so he turns towards it, casting both wand and sword aside to free up his movement and letting his anger and grief provide the strength he needs to stand.

“Let me guess,” he bites out to distract the creature while he examines its magical aura for any clues of exactly what it is and how it is fuelling itself, “Tom Riddle, no? I’ve heard about you. Oh, I’ve heard so much about you…”

Soul Magic, he identifies, and not the safe kind. No, this is dangerous and corrupt, just as much so as the disease that ravished Eavan’s soul. This shade has no full soul of its own, only the tiniest fragment, but somehow it is feeding, almost seeming to fill in what it is missing, and a glance towards the children in the chamber tells him exactly where that supply is coming from.

“Uncle Salazar?” Harry whispers behind him, stepping nervously forward to hold out a small, black book. “He said he’s been preserved in this. And he’s been using it to feed off Weasley…?”

Salazar hears the plea that Harry doesn’t dare voice aloud; his nephew wants him to save the other boy, but doesn’t know if he will be able.

“Thank you, Harry,” he replies calmly, flipping the book over in his hands and catching the defensive snarl that simple action earns him from the spirit. “A horcrux, then, is it? And this is your vessel. I suppose that will be simple enough to deal with…”

His first thought is Fiendfyre, but why risk that when he has a basilisk right here? The venom will certainly be potent enough to deal with a malevolent soul fragment.

Turning to Eavan’s corpse, he offers a silent apology to his friend before reaching out a hand to summon a fang and hold it up to the diary, raising a silent eyebrow at the loudly protesting personification of Riddle’s horcrux before lowering the fang to stab it through the book without another word. As the spirit screams and writhes, he watches in dispassionate silence, waiting with mild impatience for it to be over. A horcrux would explain Riddle’s survival on the night that James died, as despicable a piece of magic as it is, but something nags at his thoughts, whispering that this is not the end, and although he cannot work out _why_ he feels this way, he finds himself inclined to agree.

Only once the shade is gone does his anger start to fade, grief alone crashing over him to send him staggering as his body remembers exactly how little energy it has available to it. Severus catches him, hauling him upright as he pants for breath and tries to hold in his tears at the knowledge that there is not a single living soul left in the world who knows him as Salazar Slytherin. Yes, there are those who are aware of his double identity, but to them, he is still at heart Salazar Potter.

It feels as though the last thread holding a whole section of himself in place has been cut away, and now that it is gone, nothing will ever fill the hole. The loneliness is overwhelming.

“Is something glowing over there?” Harry asks nervously, though Salazar barely hears him. “There – at the base of the statue. That – That glowing thing. I think there was some kind of stone tablet there earlier, but I don’t…”

There’s nothing for it but to bottle up his grief for a little while longer, Salazar decides, nodding at Severus and allowing the other man to half-carry, half-drag him towards the strange light source, quietly relieved that none of the children decide to follow along. The closer they get, the brighter the glow becomes, until white light floods the chamber, the familiar tang of Death Magic bursting across his tongue. The taste remains even as the luminescence fades, Salazar’s eyes taking a moment to readjust and focus on the figure left behind.

It takes no such time to recognise the figure once his vision does clear.

“ _Godric_!” he chokes out, barely aware of his own lips moving; the sound seems almost alien to his ears as he stumbles forward, away from Severus’ support to waver on the verge of falling before familiar arms wrap around him and he finds himself slumped against a warm, solid chest instead of cold tiles, slipping easily back into his lover’s native tongue. “ _Godric, I – I don’t – How are you…?_ ”

He can’t get his thoughts in order, entirely stuck on _Godric_ _is here and real, seemingly not a year or so older than when Salazar last saw him,_ as a hand rubs soothingly up and down his back, lips pressing into his hair. In all honesty, he is not sure that he wants to get his thoughts in order, because that means acknowledging that he is not truly back with Godric – that he is still in the 20th Century and that this will not last.

“ _Shh, Sal_ ,” Godric murmurs, breath ghosting Salazar’s scalp in an oh-so-familiar way, and a desperate pang of longing strikes Salazar’s heart in accompaniment. “ _I made a deal with Death, that’s all._ ”

“ _That’s_ all _?_ ” he finds himself echoing, incredulous. “How _?_ ”

Godric’s chest rumbles with a soft chuckle, his fingers threading through Salazar’s hair; Salazar can’t help but wish he never cut it short, so that Godric could comb through it just like he used to – so that he can pretend that the last four years have all been a dream.

“ _I went on a quest_ ,” Godric explains, as though it is simple, easy.

_Of course he went on a quest._

“ _I impressed Death enough, apparently, that I was granted a chance to see you one last time and say farewell. My soul has been preserved in that tablet ever since my death, waiting for you to get close enough._ ”

For several seconds, Salazar struggles for a response and comes up blank, only able to cling to his lover as his breaths stutter in the beginnings of sobs. After all this time, Godric is right here, in the flesh – or close enough – and he doesn’t know how to cope with it. With every breath, he has to fight the urge to steal Godric away to somewhere hidden, just the two of them for as long as they have together. He does not have forever, he knows, but perhaps, if he worked hard enough, he might be able to change it.

“ _I do not have long_ ,” Godric adds gently. “ _Just a matter of minutes._ ”

It is not long enough. It will never be long enough. Can they not simply start again from seven years ago or some time around then? If they’d started work on his amulet then, Salazar might still be with Godric and the others, and this would not be necessary at all.

_Can they not start again?_

“ _Salazar, I love you. I never stopped loving you. But… Death gave me some advice, when I sought him out. He told me to move on, because to not do so would be harder on the both of us. I eventually took that advice, and it made me realise that just because I never stopped loving you and wishing for your return, that did not mean I had no room to love another._ ”

Salazar listens in silence, letting Godric talk without releasing the other man and basking in turn in the warmth of Godric’s arms around him. It seems as though Godric will fall away from him the moment he lets go, and he does not think that he is strong enough to handle that.

“ _I will not ask you to stop loving me; it would not work for me, so why should it for you? All I ask is that you look for happiness for yourself, and perhaps find someone else to share your heart with. There is room enough for me and many more within, I am sure._ ”

When Salazar dares to lift his head, Godric’s smile is soft yet sure, his eyes filled with love that Salazar knows only too well. All he wants is to stay here, with Godric looking at him like this – just like he used to – and pretend that none of this has happened, but that cannot be. He will never have Godric forever.

“ _You want me to move on from you?_ ” he asks uncertainly, and cannot decipher his own emotions on the suggestion.

“ _Not to forget me, or to stop loving me_ ,” Godric assures, “ _But to allow yourself to seek happiness with another. I ask that you give yourself a_ chance _, Sal. Look at you; you’re wasting away._ ”

Salazar does not dare look at himself, and Godric does not attempt to push him to do so.

“ _I love you_ ,” he murmurs instead of dwelling on the issue, lifting a hand to Godric’s face and leaning in for a soft kiss. “ _I always will. I cannot promise to find another, but…_ ”

_Please do not leave me_ , he begs internally, but does not voice it aloud, already knowing that Godric cannot give him that.

“ _All I ask is that you do not shut it out_ ,” Godric tells him quietly, joining their lips again for a matter of seconds. “ _I would see you happy when you join me on the other side of death._ ”

That brings the tears forth finally, springing from Salazar’s eyes as his breath hitches desperately, fingers tightening in the thick fabric of Godric’s robes.

“ _I will see you on Samhain_ ,” Godric tells him, gentle but firm. “ _The girls always missed you too. Farewell, my love._ ”

“ _No_ ,” Salazar hears himself choke, even as Godric starts to fade from his grasp, slipping through his fingers like fine sand. “ _Godric,_ please _… I love you._ ”

He has never had a chance to say his farewell, he realises dully, as Godric continues to disappear before his very eyes; he will not waste this second opportunity.

“ _Farewell, my heart,_ ” he murmurs thickly, catching just a glimpse of a smile from Godric before the man is gone altogether, leaving Salazar’s arms to drop back to his side as the black stone tablet on the floor blazes to life.

Something in Salazar seems to snap at the sight, a tightly-coiled tension releasing to send emotions flooding in every direction with the realisation that this tablet is, in a sense, a piece of Godric – and it is going up in flames before his eyes. Tears scalding his cheeks, he lunges for it, uncaring of the burn that lights in his palms as soon as his hands fix upon it, only to be dragged back by strong arms around his waist, Severus pulling him away from the fire with ease even as he struggles desperately.

He cannot lose Godric; can they not simply go back to the start? He would go through all the pain and times of hardship, every near-death experience twice over to be with that man again, because none of it compares to what Godric gave him – what he has lost without Godric around.

“Salazar,” Severus mutters in his ear, “Salazar, he’s gone. Try to breathe deeply.”

Salazar had not even realised that he has been choking on his own sobs, but now he realises that his lungs are screaming, his head swimming as his legs give way, his body seeming to give up on the fight long before his mind or his heart make that same decision.

“Do you have the strength to apparate?” Severus continues as Salazar clutches at his arms, trying to find something to anchor himself on through the pain even though putting pressure on the fresh burns on his palms sends yet more waves of agony pulsing through him.

Godric is gone, _again_ – and yet somehow, this pain almost feels better than before, the cut a little cleaner to sever the limb. He cannot walk, never mind apparate, though he supposes that such a thing hasn’t always stopped him in the past.

“Where – Where t – to?” he rasps breathlessly, struggling for control of his own lungs even as he twitches his fingers to summon his wand and Godric’s sword to him.

Perhaps if he tries to convince himself that all of this is no more than an extended nightmare, then he can keep going for as long as it takes to wake up in Godric’s arms again.

“My office,” Severus replies, gesturing to the children hovering nearby, watching them with wide, fearful eyes. “How many can you take – aside from the Weasley boy?”

Salazar looks them over, considering each of them in turn and weighing up their masses. It will probably take every last drop of his remaining energy to manage them all at once, but better that than attempt return trips, or leave one of them behind. At least Severus’ office is close, he supposes.

“All of them,” he tells Severus firmly, letting the other man pull him the rest of the way to his nephew and the other students. “Harry, Hermione, Neville, Draco… Take hold of my arms.”

As the four of them shuffle closer, Salazar casts one last glance back towards Eavan, and then over to where the tablet is now little more than a smouldering heap, before holding out his arms to them. When he is certain that they all have a tight hold, he steps and turns, staggering to catch himself on Severus’ desk – and then, as burning pain lances up his arms from his damaged palms, blackness rushes up on him and he sees no more.

Salazar wakes to a familiarly deep-seated ache of loss and loneliness, Godric’s absence grating against his reluctant consciousness like a raw wound rubbed with salt. For some time, he can only lie in silence, his eyes still closed as he struggles to contend with the grief that rips him to shreds, but as nearby voices begin to filter through, he realises that he is not in his bedroom. That is Harry, he recognises, and then Severus, and Harry’s friends.

Memories come rushing back like a punch to the gut, winding him with the force of it all until he can only choke silently on air, heart twisting desperately with the realisation that, for a matter of minutes, Godric had been with him once more – _for one last time_ , his grief-addled mind fills in. He has lost Eavan, then Godric again, and yet the passing seemed sweeter this time, with the small warning that he had and the chance to say a proper farewell.

He had thought that, as with Rowena and Helga, he could not see Godric on Samhain because the man’s soul had passed beyond reach, no longer tethered to the land of the living; now, he knows differently. Next Samhain, he will see Godric’s face again.

It is enough of a lifeline to hold onto for the time being.

Slowly, realisation sinks in that some kind of debate is taking place around him, and he finds that he has to open his eyes to assess the situation from his position on the floor: Harry hovers over him, strangely defensive in posture with his hands clenched tightly into fists; Harry’s friends watch Salazar himself with fear and suspicion in their gazes, their wands gripped securely in their hands; and Severus stands in the space between them but off to the side, apparently torn between the two sides of the argument.

They look ready to start duelling any second, Salazar registers somewhat dazedly, which means the first necessary course of action is to defuse the threat of violence – easily done, with young magic-users.

A flick of his aching hand has the children’s wands – Harry’s included – flying to him, and he plucks them easily from the air as all eyes turn to him, setting them down on the floor beside himself. Then, carefully, he pushes himself up into a sitting position, grimacing at the resultant vertigo, and then up to his feet, grateful when Harry reaches out to help him but making sure not to lean too heavily on his nephew; he doesn’t want to worry the boy any more than necessary.

“What seems to be the problem?” he enquires, fighting to keep his words calm and measured even though it strains him to speak; the pain in his throat is nothing compared to that in his palms, chest, and mind.

“They think you’re evil,” Harry mutters petulantly, shooting his friends a disgruntled frown; Salazar has to bite back a mildly hysterical laugh at the sight, although nothing about the situation is remotely amusing. “They sort of… worked out who you are.”

If he ever finds the person who ruined his reputation, he will make them wish that they had never even heard of him, because he does not take kindly to having his words twisted, never mind his entire character reimagined to the point that innocents have been killed in his name. Admittedly, it also hurts somewhat that these children, who have all met him before, would now question him so easily, though perhaps that would be why they have not already attempted to curse him.

“I have some explaining to do, I see?” he hums lightly, refusing to let a hint of his anger or frustration through. “Very well. Would you mind if I sat?”

Harry seems all too relieved, he notices, to see him lower himself into a seat when no one protests. Clearly, his nephew has been greatly concerned for him, which is not at all what he intended.

“Where to start, then?” he sighs, considering them all closely. “Perhaps to ensure that we are all on the same page… I am Salazar Potter, but more pressingly at the moment, I think, I also go by Salazar Slytherin.”

Now, he thinks, is not the time to mention that ‘Salazar Potter’ feels more like an alias these days.

“The magical accident at the start of my fourteen-year-long absence resulted in an extreme form of time-travel. I found myself in the 10th Century, met three delightful people, and the rest, as you might say, is history.”

Harry’s eyes, he notices, have drifted down to the burns still raw and red on his palms, which Salazar has little doubt are untreatable; magical fires rarely cause reversable damage, after all, and there is no questioning the magical nature of the fire that burnt up that stone tablet. Quickly, he curls his hands as much as he can without the pain rocketing to sickening levels, settling them so that the damage is entirely hidden.

“I have no problem with muggleborns simply for their birth,” he tells them all firmly. “My only quarrels with muggles were when they threatened the lives of my students. _They_ are why I built the chamber, and left a dear friend of mine to guard it. Godric, Rowena and Helga all knew of it and assisted in its construction. If the castle were ever attacked, then the plan was that the students would hide within and Eavan would join us in protecting them.”

They do not seem entirely convinced, he notes, gritting his teeth.

“She was _never_ there to hurt the students,” he bites out. “She was driven mad by a terrible form of Soul Magic; I imagine that it was planted by Riddle.”

“Who is he?” Harry asks quietly, finally turning his gaze from Salazar’s hands and glancing up to meet Salazar’s eyes instead. “You said you’d heard of him, down in the…”

“Tom Riddle grew up to take on the pseudonym ‘Lord Voldemort’,” Salazar explains simply, “And has apparently spent most of his life claiming to be my Heir, which I will tell you now is entirely impossible; I never had children.”

“But the new Lord Slytherin…?” Hermione trails off, eyes wide. “ _Oh_ – that’s you.”

“Indeed,” Salazar confirms, quietly impressed that she is keeping up with the politics of the world so well. “Likely, the House will die again with me – or perhaps, if he agrees, I will name Harry my Heir and be done with it.”

The alarmed stare that he earns from Harry is almost enough to bring a smile to his lips. In all honesty, he is yet to make any plans for the continuation of the Slytherin Family, but he does not actually intend to allow it to die with himself, no matter what he might tell others for the time being; it does not pay to have all of one’s cards on the table, but leaving his own House to die out does not sit well with him. All the same, he’d rather pass it on to someone other than Harry; it simply is not proper for someone to hold two Lordships unless one is temporary.

Checking his watch, he takes note that it has been several hours since Petunia first came to him with Harry’s letter; he should probably return to assure them that all is well.

“I should take my leave,” he tells them, only avoiding a wobble on standing through sheer force of will and a small amount of magical assistance. “If you have more questions, perhaps they could be asked during the Spring Holiday, should you wish to visit – though Harry, we _will_ be having words about your horrific lack of survival instinct.”

Harry has the grace to duck his head at Salazar’s reprimanding tone, clearly having been waiting for such a comment.

“Perhaps before you leave, you might wish to visit Mr Weasley in the Hospital Wing,” Severus tells him silkily. “He woke up briefly in the chamber and will be aware that you were present, though I do not believe that he was conscious for long enough to catch anything more.”

Salazar meets his eyes, nodding in quiet gratitude, then crouches to embrace Harry gently.

“You gave your aunt quite the fright,” he murmurs softly. “I thought you promised not to go chasing trouble, hmm?”

“Yeah…” Harry concedes, audibly guilty as his arms rise to return the hug. “What’s a horcrux?”

Biting back a grimace at the question, Salazar merely squeezes him tighter before standing, briefly wondering if he should simply pretend that he did not hear the question. Then again, perhaps he has spent a little too much time dancing around topics with Harry lately – though there can be no question that he will not be explaining anything to Harry until he has full knowledge of the situation himself.

“I’ll explain after I’ve taken some more time to look into it myself,” he promises. “Stay safe for the rest of the year, yes? I do not want to hear that you have stumbled into some new danger; you are _twelve_.”

“You weren’t _much_ older when you decided to steal from a dragon,” Harry mutters, just a hint of rebellion in his tone before he appears to realise what he has just said and freezes in place, wide eyes fixed on Salazar.

For a moment, Salazar can only blink rapidly to quell the burning in his eyes as his heart aches sickeningly, but eventually he manages a small smile.

“I would like to remind you that I had nothing to do with that decision,” he tells Harry lightly. “It was entirely Godric’s fault.”

Admittedly, he only knows the barest details of the incident at the moment, but perhaps at the end of the year, he could let the memory settle back into his own head without suffering an unbearable sense of grief. After all, he will see Godric again on Samhain.

“Sure it was,” Harry snorts quietly, relaxing with a grin; Salazar’s own smile seems somehow easier to hold as he spots the relief in his nephew’s eyes.

Unfortunately, he cannot stay for long. He will need to have a discussion with Mr Weasley before the boy can speak to anyone else, and that will be a very delicate situation to handle indeed, which he suspects will require a lot of preparation before Mr Weasley wakes. Reaching out to ruffle Harry’s hair, he offers one last smile before stepping and turning, ignoring the way the world swims before his eyes with such a simple movement.

_Godric is right_ , he has to admit all the same, as he reappears without a hint of a crack – the Silencing Charm can be so useful when timed correctly – in the shadows of the Hospital Wing, _I am wasting away somewhat._

Perhaps it might be time to change that.

Albus Dumbledore stares at his employee in silence, listening as Severus recounts the tale of how he discovered that several students had gone down into the Chamber of Secrets and went after them to save them from the monster, which turned out to be a basilisk. Supposedly, young Neville Longbottom summoned the Sword of Gryffindor quite by accident, and managed to stab the basilisk with it only for the weapon to vanish again almost instantly. The diary Severus presents to him has a large hole ripped through the centre, which Severus explains was made by the basilisk fang that he stabbed through it to destroy the spirit that had haunted them.

Finally, Severus finishes talking, slouching back against his seat while Albus strokes his beard in quiet consideration.

“Thank you, Severus,” he offers gently, nodding his dismissal, and watches the younger man stand to sweep from the room, careful not to give away his internal troubles.

To be truthful, there is not a single hole that Albus can find within the story – and yet he cannot shake the feeling that Severus is not being entirely honest. The thought is disturbing, to say the least, given how loyal Severus has been to the cause ever since Tom made the mistake of threatening Lily Potter, never mind that Albus holds a lot over the man’s head. Then again, Severus has been different ever since Salazar Potter came onto the scene again, and if ever there might be a man with unknown capabilities with a grudge against Albus, then Salazar Potter would be him.

What to do with a man who disappeared for fourteen years and only returned long after his brother and parents were dead? Albus cannot say where he received his magical education, how he managed to obtain a wand or even what he wants, and the thought is quite disturbing, to say the least. This kind of gap in his knowledge cannot be allowed to continue as it is, not with the sway that Salazar Potter has over his nephew – and with his most faithful servant at risk of being drawn away by this newcomer. Albus is starting to think that he shouldn’t have let it lie when the Potter seats and estate were first ripped from his control; it is a mistake from which he has learnt, and he certainly won’t be repeating it.

From now on, Salazar Potter will have to stay on a _far_ tighter leash. It’s bad enough to have this Lord Slytherin rising as a potential threat; the last thing Albus needs is to cause himself more difficulties by forgetting to tie up loose threads.

For the moment, though, there is the issue of what to do with Severus, who seems to be growing a little too comfortable in the freedom that Albus has provided him. If only there were a way to remind him of all he stands to lose while simultaneously testing any connection that he might have to the new Lord Potter…

On second thoughts, Albus might just have the answer. All he needs is to pull a few strings, and everything will be ready to go – the Easter Holiday should be a good time for it, in fact.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello, my dear readers! Good morning! Madainn mhath! I hope you have all had a good week. I would certainly venture to say that I have, for the most part; although I'm not overly fond of local media pasting photos of me across the internet and the front page of their newspapers, I cannot exactly complain about the reason. Results Day went very well - and thank you to those who wished me luck - and though I mostly expected the A*s in my 4 A levels, I certainly didn't expected an A* in my Extended Project (which took the form of coursework handed in online and was therefore properly assessed and moderated). All in all, I'm still pleased, still bouncing off the walls to a degree, and even thinking about where I'm off to now makes me buzz.
> 
> But yes. As I say, I hope you've all been well. Beyond that... Please enjoy!

“I can’t believe your uncle is _Salazar Slytherin_ ,” Hermione murmurs, shaking her head slowly as she frowns at Harry. “And he’s _completely_ different to how the books say – he’s not even old enough for any of the portraits of him to be accurate!”

Harry nods along in silence, letting her vent. Admittedly, this is the third time that she has started on this little rant since Uncle Salazar left them in Professor Snape’s office two days ago, but he’s inclined to let her take some time to process this; he can’t deny that, as news goes, it’s somewhat hard to digest that his uncle is not only a time-traveller – though it feels strange to think of him that way – but secretly one of the ancient Founders of Hogwarts and, at that, not at all the villain that the history books have made him out to be.

Alright, as normal as it seems to Harry, ‘somewhat hard to digest’ is probably an understatement.

“I mean, he doesn’t even dislike _muggles_ , never mind muggleborns!” Hermione continues, staring blankly at her Potions textbook as she clutches at her head, eyes wide. “I just – It’s not…”

“Watch out,” Draco announces quietly, leaning in towards the rest of them. “Weasley’s coming over.”

Harry’s head jerks up, his eyes narrowing automatically as he takes in the boy who disrespected his heritage last year, and only Weasley’s obviously nervous demeanour prevents him from attempting to drive the redhead away through silent hostility alone.

“I, um…” Weasley stops in front of them, fingers twisting nervously as he swallows visibly. “I wanted to say thank you – for helping me. And also…”

He stops, drawing in a deep breath before letting it slowly back out and seeming to steel himself while Harry waits with a touch of impatience.

“I wanted to apologise for being rude about your traditions. I don’t really know how this is meant to go, but…?”

He extends a hand cautiously, and Harry feels his eyebrows rise. _Uncle Salazar really must have made an impact on him_ , he observes, even as he considers the best course of action from here.

“Normally, you’d greet the other person by their name first,” he settles on explaining, standing as he does so. “So you’d go ‘Heir Potter’ and _then_ hold out your hand…”

Weasley drops his hand.

“Heir Potter,” he echoes uncertainly, lifting the appendage again, and Harry nods approvingly.

“Mr Weasley,” he returns, taking the hand. “Please, call me Harry.”

Weasley beams.

“Call me Ron!”

_Ron it is, then._

“I _could_ just introduce you to the rest of my friends, but you might as well use the practice,” Harry adds, gesturing to Hermione, Neville and Draco and sitting back down to watch the greetings.

Briefly, he can’t help but wonder what it was that Uncle Salazar said to him to cause such a change of heart, but that’s something to ask his uncle over the holiday – or maybe Ron himself, some day. Certainly, he doesn’t need to concern himself with it now, when he has plenty of homework to be getting on with instead, and Ron doesn’t seem too bothered about sticking around for anything more than a polite meeting and an apology for each of them, which is probably for the best. From what Harry’s seen of him, Ron isn’t particularly keen on schoolwork or putting effort into academics, so he probably wouldn’t enjoy it if he stayed.

Still, it’s nice to see Ron appear at their next study group meeting, hovering awkwardly for ten minutes or so before settling down with Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas to work on the Transfiguration essay due in on Tuesday. Besides that, everyone seems a little more relaxed, the chatter lighter and the laughter flowing more easily, the tension of the last few months just starting to drain away.

The school as a whole takes somewhat longer to settle down, particularly the First Years, and Harry can’t bring himself to pretend that everything is fine with Dudley still frozen in the Hospital Wing. All the same, he can’t deny the sense of normalcy that starts to sink in as they return to their usual routines without the threat of petrification hanging over their heads; Ostara arrives and passes with the usual tradition and lift of magic that it provides, and Neville _almost_ manages to convince Ron to join the rest of the year – “My mum wouldn’t be happy if I did…” – in performing the ritual, which Harry considers a feat in and of itself, certainly worthy of praise.

Of course, the Spring Holiday brings a whole new challenge for Harry and, in fact, the year as a whole, as he finds himself staring blankly down at the list of options that he could choose to take next year.

_Arithmancy  
Care of Magical Creatures  
Divination  
Muggle Studies  
Study of Ancient Runes_

He sits down with Uncle Salazar as soon as he arrives home to work out exactly what each of these new subjects will entail and which will suit him best. Unfortunately, Harry finds himself more distracted by his relief on seeing that Uncle Salazar, though still thin and a little pale, looks much healthier than he had when he came to save them all from the basilisk just over a month ago. His worry for his uncle has remained in the back of his head, alongside his concern over his petrified cousin, but now, seeing the man up on his feet and moving without support, Harry thinks he can relax.

“I would remove Care of Magical Creatures, if I were you,” Uncle Salazar tells him bluntly, leaning over his desk and frowning down at the short list, and Harry quickly shakes himself back to the present. “Unless I am mistaken, you do not have a particular interest in animals, do you?”

Shaking his head, Harry crosses it off the list.

“Muggle Studies…” Uncle Salazar sighs next, finger tapping thoughtfully. “It might be _interesting_ to see what the curriculum could be like, but I doubt you’re going to learn anything useful that you cannot easily find elsewhere, or simply from talking to your peers.”

“I thought it looked a bit weird,” Harry admits, striking it off as well. “Is Divination even…?”

“Legitimate?” Uncle Salazar fills in, lips twitching. “Contrary to somewhat popular belief, yes – but it requires a great deal of natural specialism. I would usually only advise that a student pursue it if they showed an ability to access their Inner Eye, but it is possible that you might find something useful from it anyway.”

Slowly, Harry nods, running the idea through his head.

“Maybe it’s something to read up on outside of classes?” he offers.

“Perhaps,” Uncle Salazar allows, lips pursing as his brow creases. “Although Study of Ancient Runes is perhaps better suited to that – not to mention that I could teach you that myself. Divination might be more useful when it comes to your _exposure_ to those with natural proficiency in that particular branch of magic, though really, it is entirely your choice. You could take both, of course, but I would advise that you choose Arithmancy instead of one.”

Harry is fairly sure that he agrees with that. Arithmancy has applications to a lot of branches of magic, and will almost certainly come in useful later on.

“So if I take Divination and Arithmancy…” he ventures carefully, “Then you’ll teach me Ancient Runes?”

“Of course,” Uncle Salazar confirms. “If you wish to learn. It seems to be an entirely theoretical course at Hogwarts, but there are many practical uses which I could teach you.”

Confused, Harry can’t help but frown as he glances back at the subject list.

“If it has practical uses, then why…?”

Sighing, Uncle Salazar sits to cross one leg over the other, fingers drumming lightly against the table as he fixes Harry with a serious stare. Harry can feel himself straightening in response, chin lifting as he meets his uncle’s eyes, and receives a small quirk of Uncle Salazar’s lips in return.

“A lot of what I would teach you is only borderline legal,” comes the soft explanation, Harry’s eyebrows rising of their own accord. “The rest is… on its way to a similar status, or will be if the Light get their way. With Dumbledore the current Headmaster of Hogwarts…”

“This is another case of his politics influencing the system,” Harry fills in, lips twisting a little bitterly.

“I would assume so,” Uncle Salazar confirms. “I don’t think I _need_ to make it clear that, although we would not experience any outright trouble should word of my teaching you these things spread, it would certainly make our political positions unstable for some time.”

Harry nods in silent understanding, pushing down his frustration towards Dumbledore in favour of calm acceptance of how they will have to work around the current situation.

“Arithmancy and Divination it is, then,” he offers, to a nod from his uncle, then changes the subject; there is nothing more to say on his options at the moment, he thinks. “Can my friends come over at some point?”

Uncle Salazar hums thoughtfully.

“Check with Petunia and Vernon, but I do not see why not,” he allows, and seems about to say more when an unfamiliar owl swoops through the open window to land on the desk before him, a small note clutched tightly in long, curved talons.

Curious, Harry waits in silence while his uncle takes the note and unrolls it, eyes flitting quickly over the words before he stands with a muffled curse that trails off into a silent glower as Uncle Salazar seems to remember Harry’s presence. Apparently, it isn’t good news, then.

“Sorry, Harry,” the man sighs, lifting a hand to rub at his temples. “I need to deal with this – but I’ll get this sorted as soon as I can, alright? Now is probably a good time for you to ask Petunia anyway.”

Harry almost asks what the note says, but something about the manner in which Uncle Salazar is holding it tells him that he wouldn’t get an answer so, with a nod, he stands and slips from his uncle’s office, heading downstairs to find his aunt.

Salazar waits just long enough for Harry to close the door, ensuring that no sound will leak from his office into the rest of the house, before crumpling the note in his fist and swearing viciously. He had been surprised – and admittedly suspicious – when Dumbledore accepted Severus’ cover story without any questioning, and had agreed with Severus that it was a situation worth keeping an eye on. This, however, he did not anticipate in the slightest.

Severus has been arrested on old charges, of which he was previously found innocent through Dumbledore’s testimony. This has Dumbledore’s machinations written all over it, and Salazar suspects that it is in fact some kind of twisted power play to remind Severus not to cross Dumbledore lest he find himself in Azkaban. Unfortunately for Dumbledore, he is no longer the only player in the game with both the means and motivation to have Severus acquitted. Unfortunately for _Salazar_ , one wrong move will expose his own investment in Severus, an outcome which would be undesirable for the both of them.

Luckily, Salazar isn’t the only one who could stand against a conviction, and one such person has already involved himself by sending Salazar the now-tattered note in the first place. Lucius will certainly be capable of pulling down any case made against Severus, at least if backed by the Slytherin Family, and he certainly owes Salazar more than ever now, after that moronic stunt he pulled with the horcrux.

It is quite one thing to rid oneself of an object that might cause inconvenience if discovered – that, Salazar can respect – but to pass the object on to a _child_ , to potentially endanger both them and the world at large rather than simply disposing of it, is certainly not acceptable. Salazar has as such done his level best to ensure that Lucius is very much aware of his disapproval.

Now, however, is not the time to dwell on Lucius’ mistakes; there are much more pressing issues to contend with. Salazar does not plan to leave Severus in custody any longer than entirely necessary.

With a sigh, he stands and summons his wands to him, tucking the spare that he gained from Riddle just under a year ago into the warded inner lining of his robes, where it will not be felt or detected by the majority of magical methods of detection. In actuality, he does not intend to use either wand today, but one can never be too careful, and a spare wand can be all kinds of useful, no matter the level of risk associated with an activity. Salazar rarely leaves the house without both on his person – and sleeps with his usual wand tucked under his pillow, too, and his spare under the mattress.

Perhaps he is paranoid, but it is a habit that he has carried with him for more than a decade, now. Not all of his time with Godric was spent on whimsical adventures and building a castle, after all.

A step and a twist, and Malfoy Manor looms before him, extravagant as ever with its white peacocks strutting along the immaculate hedgerows; Salazar bites back a grimace, unable to help the thought that it is rather too much for his tastes, even for the display of wealth and power that it is meant to be, and strides up to the gate, nodding a greeting to Lucius and not commenting on the fact that the man is waiting outside for him in the first place.

“Salazar,” Lucius starts without preamble, as the gates swing open to allow Salazar entry, “I would advise that the sooner we act, the better. The combined political strength of the Potters and the Malfoys –”

“The Potters cannot be seen to be involved in this,” Salazar cuts him off smoothly. “It would be disagreeable for both myself and Severus to suggest any connections between the two of us.”

Immediately, Lucius’ brow creases, his lips thinning.

“Salazar, as much as I would prefer not to admit this, the Malfoy Family cannot deal with this alone. Any other affair, it might be possible, but the fact is that the majority of the Wizengamot would not allow me to vouch for another ex-Death Eater without support.”

“You will have support,” Salazar assures him, gesturing for Lucius to join him in walking up towards the manor, “But it will not be from the Potter Family. I think you will find that the Slytherin Family has little wish to see the Head of Slytherin House thrown into Azkaban at the whim of his own employer, and Lord Slytherin will certainly wish to challenge the integrity of a Hogwarts Headmaster who would declare a man innocent one day then refuse to defend him the next.”

For a moment, Lucius merely stares at him in silence. Salazar continues to walk, letting the man think without interruption, his own eyes fixed forward as he waits for Lucius’ reply. If Dumbledore thinks that he can hold Azkaban over Severus’ head, then he will be sorely mistaken, but Salazar will certainly not allow him to gain confirmation of their alliance of sorts – or any reward at all – through a play such as this. Indeed, this seems as good an opportunity as any to start weakening Dumbledore’s position within magical society.

“Do you know, I have tried harder than you could possibly imagine to have you admit that you are Lord Slytherin,” Lucius sighs after some time, lifting a hand to nurse at his forehead.

“And I still have not – though on a separate note,” Salazar continues thoughtfully, mind ticking onwards with further ideas as Lucius’s eye twitches in silent frustration, “I will have to see if the Flamels might have anything to say about this situation. They do owe me a favour or two, after all, and when it comes to Lord Dumbledore’s supposed omniscience, they’ve been rather disillusioned of late.”

“Indeed?” Lucius hums. “That would certainly be… unexpected.”

Salazar nods as they reach the entrance to the manor, letting the natural lull of the conversation extend until the door of the drawing room is firmly closed behind them. ‘Unexpected’ is certainly one way to describe it; ‘political ambush’ would be another. The Flamel Family has been close to the Dumbledores for some time and, despite the fiasco with the Philosopher’s Stone, not much has visibly changed in that regard over the last year or so. Now seems the perfect time to capitalise on the silent unrest that has grown in Nicolas and Perenelle since, with the help of the favour that they owe him for returning the Stone to them.

With any luck, this will be the tipping point to turn them towards the Grey, and from that moment, it’s only a matter of time before more follow.

“An emergency Wizengamot meeting tomorrow morning should really be the perfect time,” he continues once the door is firmly closed, Narcissa rising to greet him silently and lead him to a seat. “Unfortunately, I doubt I will be able to attend, as it is simply _imperative_ that I spend tomorrow morning ensuring that my nephew has suitable knowledge of our history, given the somewhat lacking curriculum at Hogwarts. Indeed, if your son were to join Harry for this, you might know the reason for my absence and be able to offer it to the Wizengamot.”

“Most unfortunate, but regrettably necessary considering the current standard of teaching in such an important subject,” Lucius agrees calmly, crossing one leg over the other to regard Salazar closely; Salazar meets those cold, grey eyes, warmed only slightly by the other man’s amusement, and does not blink. “Perhaps, even, we might offer to host yourself and your nephew tomorrow? We might have _resources_ available for the two of you which might be inaccessible in your usual residence.”

By which, Salazar knows, Lucius means privacy wards that will ensure a complete lack of verification or otherwise for any who might doubt such a story.

“Of course,” he replies smoothly, letting his lips twitch upwards just slightly in unspoken approval. “Do let me know when would be the best time to arrive, would you? I’m sure that I would appreciate half an hour to catch up with the both of you before your presence might be required elsewhere.”

“I will do so as soon as my plans for tomorrow are finalised,” Lucius assures him. “Have you any further plans for this afternoon, then, Salazar?”

Lifting one shoulder delicately, Salazar laces his fingers together.

“I was thinking of paying a visit to an _old_ friend,” he offers. “I can tell you all about that tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Sounds delightful,” Lucius tells him. “We won’t keep you, then.”

Ten minutes later finds Salazar standing at the door to a cottage that he has only visited once before, neatening his robes just slightly before raising his hand to knock. He will have to go about this carefully, he knows; the Flamels might well owe him, but they are by no means _obliged_ to repay their debt and, as long as they have lived, they would not take kindly to him attempting to threaten them or similar. No, this will have to be worded as a request, with his past help to them merely counting as a note in his favour – something to guide them towards helping him without ever being raised explicitly.

Of course, there is also no point in attempting to lie to them. Both Nicolas and Perenelle have far too much experience to be fooled by anything he could try, no matter the level of Occlumency he might employ.

“Salazar!” Perenelle greets him on opening the door, a wide smile crinkling her face as she steps aside to usher him in. “An absolute delight to see you, young man. Do come in, do come in… Tea?”

Salazar considers the offer briefly, aware of the assessing glint behind her expectant gaze.

“If you don’t mind, that would be lovely,” he settles on, offering a genuine smile of his own; Perenelle Flamel really is a lovely woman, and sometimes he wonders if Helga might have been much the same in her later years, had Salazar been around to see her grow old. “How have you been?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Perenelle assures him as she leads him through her home to the kitchen. “Do take a seat – did you want to see Nicolas as well?”

“I was hoping to,” Salazar allows, lowering himself into a chair to watch as she flicks her wand towards the kettle and teabags before sitting down opposite him. “Trouble has befallen a friend of mine, and I was hoping for some assistance from you both.”

“Assistance?” Nicolas echoes from the doorway. “Exactly what sort of assistance do you expect from us? We’re hardly as spry as we once were.”

Salazar doesn’t bite back his wry smile in response to that comment, instead simply accepting the hand that Nicolas holds out for him to shake.

“I am only looking for political support,” he explains carefully; the shift in the atmosphere is unmissable, the tension in the air suddenly very much palpable. “Severus Snape was arrested this morning on charges related to his activities in the war. Albus Dumbledore has not raised a hand to stop it, though they are the same charges as those which Dumbledore defended him against previously.”

He pauses to accept a mug of tea from Perenelle, nodding his thanks with a soft smile.

“I suspect that Dumbledore is behind the arrest,” he tells them bluntly, “Perhaps in a bid to remind Severus of what he stands to lose should he go against Dumbledore.”

Perenelle’s eyebrows rise as Nicolas slowly lowers himself into a seat to consider Salazar carefully, brow creased.

“That is a serious accusation,” he observes slowly. “What do you wish us to do about it?”

“Besides support the motion to declare Severus innocent once and for all for any war-related charges, nothing,” Salazar assures them. “Lucius Malfoy will be introducing it, and I will support it – as Lord of House Slytherin.”

Perenelle’s eyebrows lift further.

“Not as Lord Potter?” she hums. “You do not want Albus to know that you have any connection to Master Snape.”

Taking a sip from his mug of tea, Salazar inclines his head in wordless confirmation.

“Well, I see no reason not to,” Nicolas sighs, gaze flickering over Salazar’s face. “I suppose you are hoping that we will be so unimpressed by Albus’ actions that we will consider moving to the Grey.”

“Are you?” Salazar ventures lightly, earning himself a twitch of Nicolas’ lips.

“Perhaps,” the alchemist returns. “Perenelle and I will talk on it. In the meantime, however, we will support Lord Malfoy’s motion. When will this be?”

Not bothering to hide his satisfaction, Salazar sits back and raises his drink in salute to the two of them.

“Tomorrow morning,” he admits easily. “An emergency Wizengamot session will be called – I do not intend to leave Severus in custody for any longer than I must.”

“My,” Nicolas observes, amusement curving his lips, “You do move fast… Now, Lord Slytherin, both Perenelle and I are rather curious about this Chamber of Secrets of yours? Created to purge the school of those you deemed unworthy?”

With a sigh, Salazar settles back to clear his reputation with two of the most well-respected members of society in the Isles. This will not be an easy conversation, he knows, but it will certainly be far smoother than with most.

Severus will not deny that he is more than a little anxious. Ever since Aurors arrived at Hogwarts yesterday morning with an arrest warrant and dragged him off to a holding cell deep within the Ministry, he will quite honestly admit that he has been almost out of his mind with worry. He is fully aware that he has grown comfortable under Albus’ protection, and clearly he took that too far, because he made the mistake of subtly opposing Albus himself. Now, he has to suffer the consequences – and that is unquestionably what this is. While he doubts that it is anything more than a warning – a reminder of what _could_ be if he steps too far out of line – the threat of Azkaban and its horrors remains, looming over his head like a storm cloud.

The unfortunate reality is that he is Dumbledore’s man through and through, whether he wishes to be or not. Until Harry Potter came to Hogwarts, there was really no other option but, now that Salazar is starting to establish himself and helping the Grey to dig their heels in and oppose the Light, Severus can see that the man is a distinctly more desirable alternative – not to mention that, as the esteemed Founder of his Hogwarts House (as strange a thought as that is), he can’t help but respect Salazar as more than an equal.

Regardless, Severus expected to spend a few days in custody before Dumbledore would eventually come to his rescue and take him back to Hogwarts to continue his miserable existence as a teacher of children who do not care about his most beloved subject. As a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, he would have had the patience. When it comes to Potions, however, he is more than aware of his inability to teach anyone besides the brightest and most eager of students – students such as Harry Potter, who is so little like he expected, so entirely different from his father, whose looks he inherited, that Severus sometimes has to pinch himself, and that leads him right back to Salazar Potter, who Severus cannot help but suspect is behind this unexpected summons by the Wizengamot to appear before them in an emergency meeting, of all things.

Glancing around the large room, he takes note of the many Heads of Houses assembled within, catching sight of Arthur Weasley, Lucius Malfoy, Albus himself… but no Salazar. The realisation is minorly worrying, but Severus does not allow his concern to show; it would not do to let Albus think that he has gained a foothold in Severus’ psyche already.

Dropping his gaze to the chains around his arms, he waits in silence for the session to begin, knowing that whoever called the emergency session in the first place will be the one to speak first, giving him his answers. As if on cue, the doors swing closed, signifying the last of arrivals, and the brief rustle of fabric notifies Severus that all have taken their seats.

“Is everyone here…?” Lucius Malfoy drawls, Severus glancing up to see him looking around. “Yes? Good.”

“My apologies, Lord Malfoy,” Albus announces, rising from his own seat to gesture to the one vacancy in the entire room. “Lord Potter appears to be absent.”

“Lord Potter expresses his deepest apologies for his absence today,” Lucius returns at once, smooth and calm as ever. “Unfortunately, he had already committed to spending this morning with his nephew and my son, teaching them everything that they should have learnt at Hogwarts but have not, in the subject of History of Magic.”

Whispers ripple briefly through the room.

“If you have not done so already,” Lucius continues dryly, “I would advise that those of you with children currently attending Hogwarts do the same. Luckily, due to some ingenuity on the part of the students in my son’s year, the majority of his peers have taught themselves and each other the necessary material and more, but Lord Potter and I are in agreement that we should check for any gaps and fill them as soon as possible. Hence, his absence today.”

_Well played_ , Severus allows internally, biting back a smirk at the range of expressions visible throughout the room. _Well played indeed._

“Regardless, that is not why we are here. Yesterday morning, it was brought to my attention that a man who has been found innocent of the charge of supporting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named throughout the war – more than a decade ago, now, I might add – has once more been arrested as a result of those charges. To me, that seemed a great injustice, and I felt it prudent to ensure that the situation is dealt with as hurriedly as possible. After all, it seems to me that such a monumental error is unlikely to be a mistake, and surely, the perpetrators must be… _suitably discouraged_ from trying such a thing again.”

_So, it was indeed Lucius who called this session?_ If Severus had the mobility to do so, he might well bury his face in his hands because, for once, support from the Malfoys is possibly the worst thing he could have been offered. Indeed, the rest of the room is shifting restlessly, even other Dark families seeming unconvinced by Lucius’ spiel. Undoubtedly, Lucius is concerned that something similar could happen to himself, but Severus sees that as rather unlikely, given that his own arrest is unquestionably a result of Albus’ subtle manipulations.

“As such, I move to clear Severus Snape of all war-related charges, and to declare him innocent once and for all,” Lucius continues, which _does_ sound nice – it would get Severus out from underneath Albus’ thumb, if nothing else – but is very much unlikely to happen.

At this rate, Severus might well find himself serving time in Azkaban; the thought sends a chill down his spine.

“I will second that motion.”

The man who stands is unfamiliar to Severus, his voice smooth but entirely unrecognisable and his face hidden by the shadow of his hood, but his announcement sends whispers buzzing excitedly around the Wizengamot. Severus frowns at him, trying to distinguish his identity, but can get nothing; he is too far away for his ring to be visible, certainly.

“Thank you, Lord Slytherin,” Lucius returns calmly, and everything falls into place. “Do you have anything you’d like to add?”

Salazar inclines his head, clasping his hands loosely before himself as he gazes around at the Wizengamot before speaking.

“My fellow magic-users,” he begins silkily, “I must confess that I am concerned by your apathy. Before us, I see a man charged with crimes of which he has already be declared innocent, and I see in your faces that you would condemn him needlessly, with little thought. Is this what our society has come to? Why is it acceptable to punish a man when we know that he has done no wrong? One of the most upstanding members of our community has declared this man’s innocence and revealed to us the incredible risks he took for the sake of all of us, and yet we would punish him for it? It does not sit well with me.”

Biting back a sneer, Severus watches the Wizengamot shift in discomfort, several members glancing away from Salazar’s unseen gaze.

“Perhaps, though, you are not at fault. Why would you believe a man to be innocent when his previously staunch defender will not stand up for him again? The current state of affairs casts uncomfortable questions. Why would the Light Lord vouch for Severus Snape’s innocence a decade ago, and yet not lift a hand in his defence now? It seems to me that either he is unwilling to help an innocent man, or he does not believe Severus Snape to be innocent, in which case he lied to us all a decade ago. I find this idea disturbing.”

Salazar and Lucius are going all out, Severus realises faintly. Not only are they fighting as fiercely as they possibly can for Severus’ freedom, but they are turning this little scheme of Albus’ back on the man himself, throwing everything they can at Albus without outright accusing him of something particular. It’s impressive, certainly, but Severus worries that it might have the effect of turning several Light families against the motion itself, out of sheer loyalty to Albus.

“I will concede that I am deeply concerned about much regarding the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, my beloved ancestor’s school,” Salazar continues, cool and entirely unflustered by the hostile glances thrown his way by the likes of Arthur Weasley – a lovely man in person, Severus has to admit, but blindly loyal to Albus. “Relevant to this matter in particular, however, is that it seems wrong to me that Lord Dumbledore would not seek to defend his own employee. Severus Snape is not only the teacher of my beloved ancestor’s favoured subject, but the Head of Slytherin House, and it strikes me as distinctly worrying that the Headmaster of Hogwarts would not lift a finger to defend him in such a time, when a mere word could have him released and free to continue his duties in respect to the care and education of our children.”

“If Lord Slytherin would allow me to interrupt…” a new voice declares from the other side of the chamber; Severus twists, heart sinking, to spot Nicolas Flamel standing from his own seat.

The Flamels are life-long friends of the Dumbledores, and if they have decided to involve themselves in this matter, then Severus has no chance. In all honesty, there is a sickness starting to grow at the thought of being thrown into Azkaban, to relive his childhood, the Dark Lord’s punishments and Lily’s death over and over to the point of insanity. However, if Salazar can counter Flamel quickly enough, there may still be an opportunity to keep the sentence to a minimum.

To his surprise and horror, Salazar inclines his head, conceding the floor easily to Flamel.

“I do not involve myself in politics much,” Flamel tells the Wizengamot as a whole, smiling wryly, “But when I see something that I feel the need to involve myself in, I will not hesitate to stand and say my part. I have lived many years and seen many things, but not for centuries has a man been prosecuted twice for the same supposed crime. I find myself for once in agreement with Lord Malfoy that it seems distinctly unjust.”

Severus must be hearing this wrong. There is no possible way that Flamel could be coming to his defence, surely?

“Besides that, it concerns me that Severus Snape might find himself in the employ of a man who seems to hold such control over whether or not he will be sent to Azkaban for crimes of which he has already been acquitted. It is too much power for one being to have over another, I believe, whether it will be exercised or not – and it strikes me, fellow members of the Wizengamot, that it may well have been exercised in this situation.”

No, Severus must be dreaming. This is beyond ridiculous now; for Flamel to speak against _Albus_ is utterly unfathomable. In just a moment, he will wake up in that same holding cell – or maybe, if he’s particularly lucky, in his chambers at Hogwarts – and all of this nonsense will be but a vague flash of memory to cast aside. However, the building chatter of the rest of the Wizengamot speaks to the reality of the situation, with the majority of members clearly just as shocked as Severus, though he cannot help but notice that Lucius and Salazar stand still and silent, merely surveying the clamour.

“That is why I will be supporting this motion,” Flamel concludes over the top of the uproar, like a final nail in the coffin.

The din is almost deafening and, throughout it all, Severus can see Albus sitting with his face pinched, as though he has just discovered that the manufacturers have forgotten to add sugar to those blasted lemons sweets he seems to enjoy so much. As much as he tries to supress it, Severus cannot help a small smirk at the sight, unable to hide it even when Albus’ gaze turns to him and their eyes lock.

A bang emitted from the tip of Lucius’ wand has the chamber falling silent in seconds, the many members of the Wizengamot settling back into order.

“Does anyone else wish to speak?” Lucius asks smoothly, and Severus waits for the opposition with bated breath; nothing comes.

No one can oppose that which has been already said, Severus recognises distantly as he gazes around at the many Heads of Houses staring back at him, without damaging their own standing and integrity.

“In that case, we shall vote.”

It’s a landslide victory. Of course it is. Severus watches blankly as the chains rescind from his arms, slowly registering that not only has he escaped an Azkaban sentence, but that Albus can never hold such a threat over his head again. In that respect, at least, he is free.

“Come,” Lucius murmurs, a hand ghosting lightly against his shoulder as he pushes himself cautiously from his seat. “We will meet at Malfoy Manor briefly before you return to Hogwarts. We have much to discuss.”

Mute, Severus can only nod and follow Lucius from the courtroom, catching sight of Salazar shaking hands with Flamel as he goes. This has certainly been a political ambush if ever he saw one, and he won’t deny that he’s impressed, but the consequences remain to be seen. Albus will not lie down and take this.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning all! I come to you with a sore head from rolling down hills with my friends yesterday (we're trying to pretend we're not yet legally adults), a sore back because... well, I always have a sore back, and a new chapter! I do hope you enjoy.

It takes far more of Albus’ restraint than he’d have liked to admit not to throw a tantrum the second Severus walks out of the Wizengamot chambers on the tails of Lucius Malfoy, Lord Slytherin and Nicolas apparently making happy introductions and getting along quite swimmingly. Nothing has gone to plan; in fact, everything seems to have backfired rather spectacularly, and the suspicious frown that Amelia Bones has just aimed at him is doing nothing to assuage that impression. Albus has spent a long time cultivating a trustworthy air to carry everywhere with him as a part of the kind, grandfatherly persona that he has long since learnt works best for his aims to improve the magical community. To have it torn down somewhat within a matter of hours is, though not a disaster – it is certainly still salvageable – very much inconvenient, especially with Nicolas’ role in the events that have just come to pass.

Albus manages to hold back while in the public eye, yes, but as soon as he returns to his office, he allows himself to let loose, knowing that he can repair anything important once he is done and that the room is suitably warded to ensure that no one will see or hear him as he vents. He has lost control of Severus Snape, several of his supporters will now be questioning his every move, and if the wider public hears about this – which they undoubtedly will – then the complaints from parents will be _hideous_. It will take a lot of time and effort to fix the damage done in the space of one morning, and he hasn’t even been able to discover whether or not Severus’ recent defiance is in any way connected to Salazar Potter – not to mention that the comment on subpar teaching of History of Magic will introduce trouble of its own.

At least he has one thing confirmed, as much as he would have preferred that it weren’t true in the first place. Lord Slytherin is working with Lucius Malfoy; that much, he can now say for certain, and the thought is undeniably concerning. He will have to do whatever he can to pull this newcomer away from the clutches of the Dark, if it is not too late already. After all, the Slytherin Family is unlikely to be that different from the Malfoys in political views, but in the event that Albus is wrong and there is some hope, he will need to capitalise on it soon. For that, he will require a face-to-face meeting with Lord Slytherin, but the question is, _how_?

Perhaps, he can pose it as an enquiry into the changes that Lord Slytherin would like to see at Hogwarts. There were hints of a lot of concerns about the governing of Hogwarts in the man’s speech, and although Albus cannot afford to change much – he refuses to use children as pawns within his political plans and risk pushing any of those who might be salvageable over to the Dark – there might be some areas in which they can compromise, thereby demonstrating his willingness to listen to Lord Slytherin and work with him. It would be a good way to foster a political partnership.

On that note, it is time to scope out Salazar Potter more directly, and to try to guide young Harry back towards those who would influence him for the better. Albus spent last year trying to speak to Harry alone, without realising that a simple change to his approach would perhaps prove more beneficial over all; he cannot speak to Harry without his uncle present, but why not speak to the both of them at the same time? After all, as Headmaster, he has a duty to check on his students, especially when those students have led their friends down into a mysterious chamber to fight a monster. This must be the third time at least that Harry has sought out danger – though admittedly, the dragon was hardly his fault – and Albus would be wrong _not_ to show concern over the boy’s well-being.

Admittedly, he is not entirely fond of the idea of spending any particular amount of time with the younger Potter twin; Salazar Potter has always reminded him far too much of his dear Ariana, with that uncontrollable magic, and Albus won’t deny that his refusal to allow the boy to study at Hogwarts was borne partly out of that experience, but no one need know that – certainly not Salazar Potter himself.

At any rate, it is settled. Albus will find a way to contact Lord Slytherin, perhaps by speaking with Quirinus after the next Wizengamot meeting, and send a letter home for Harry Potter’s uncle. If either refuse then that, too, will tell him something about them, but he rather doubts that they will.

Then again, perhaps it would be better if he gave young Lord Potter a little less time to prepare; starting the meeting with his potential opponent slightly unsettled certainly won’t do any harm.

Harry has not yet been back at Hogwarts a week when Professor Flitwick approaches him in the Ravenclaw common room, an almost apologetic grimace on the short man’s face as he picks his way between the scattered students. When he realises that Professor Flitwick is headed his way, Harry lifts his head reluctantly from Mandy and Lisa’s riveting Chess game to find out what the issue is, already suspecting that it won’t be good; he isn’t disappointed.

“Mr Potter, the Headmaster wishes to speak with you urgently. He says that if you still require your uncle to be present for such a meeting, then he would like you to contact your uncle now and ask him to arrive as soon as possible.”

Taken aback, Harry can only blink at his Head of House for several seconds, struggling briefly for words before managing a slow, hesitant nod and pulling out his mirror. Dumbledore wants to speak with him and is willing to put up with Uncle Salazar’s presence as well; something about this doesn’t seem quite right, even beyond Harry’s general unwillingness to spend time in close proximity to the man who left him to die as a baby.

“Salazar Potter,” he murmurs, relaxing when his uncle appears almost instantly; he hasn’t actually used the mirror system since the day he went after the basilisk with his friends, so it’s good to see it working.

“Is everything alright, Harry?” Uncle Salazar asks at once, brow creasing in mild concern.

“Dumbledore wants to speak to me,” Harry explains, unable and unwilling to keep the disgruntled note from his tone, and Uncle Salazar’s frown deepens at once. “He says it’s urgent, apparently; he wants you to come as soon as possible.”

“I… see…” Uncle Salazar replies slowly, clearly thinking this concept over. “Alright. I’ll meet you at the castle entrance in about fifteen minutes, alright?”

Sighing, Harry nods. He can’t deny that he’d been hoping for Uncle Salazar to outright refuse, or at least say that he can’t make it until tomorrow, but he supposes that, in the first case, Dumbledore would merely have become more insistent or, in the second, the suspense would simply have built.

“Harry?” Uncle Salazar adds gently; Harry jumps at the realisation that his uncle is still watching him from the mirror. “Everything is going to be alright. I’ll be there.”

All Harry can do is offer another jerky nod before Uncle Salazar’s face fades back to a reflection of Harry and the wall behind his head, Professor Flitwick offering an awkwardly sympathetic smile.

“If you’d like me there as your Head of House as well, I’m more than willing,” the diminutive professor offers, “Though I imagine that your uncle has it all well-covered.”

“We should be fine,” Harry assures him, quietly touched by the suggestion, “But thank you.”

When Professor Flitwick is gone, Harry turns to his housemates with a sigh, providing them all with a long-suffering grimace in response to their sympathetic stares.

“Wish me luck, then,” he mutters grudgingly, standing and stretching before trudging up to the dormitory to get ready.

What could Dumbledore want from a meeting with both of them? There’s nothing he can do to Harry with Uncle Salazar present; he can’t use Legilimency, and he can’t try any subtle manipulations, so what could his aim in this possibly be? It hits Harry in a flash just as he steps out of the Ravenclaw common room to head all the way down to the bottom of the castle: Dumbledore doesn’t want to talk to Harry; he wants to talk to Uncle Salazar. He’s simply using Harry as an excuse to do so.

_What a dick._

Uncle Salazar arrives after Harry has been waiting for a few minutes, the doors gliding silently open to allow him entry then sweeping closed with an equal lack of sound, Harry ignoring the deathly quiet in favour of falling into his uncle’s open arms and clinging to the solid warmth that Uncle Salazar offers.

“I don’t want to see him,” he admits in a low voice, though he knows he sounds like a child; he _is_ a child, so he thinks he’s entitled to a level of immaturity.

“I know,” Uncle Salazar assures him softly, rubbing a hand soothingly up and down his back. “All you have to do is stay quiet and not look at him, alright? Pretend he isn’t there. If he asks you a direct question, you don’t have to worry about being nice, understand? All you need is the minimum level of politeness.”

Nodding, Harry draws reluctantly back and turns to where Professor Flitwick has appeared once more, apparently to take them up to the Headmaster’s Office.

“Lord Potter,” he squeaks, holding out a hand. “I am Filius Flitwick, but please, call me Filius.”

“A pleasure, Filius,” Uncle Salazar replies. “I would appreciate it if you’d call me Salazar.”

“I would be honoured to,” Professor Flitwick declares, with a small bow that Uncle Salazar returns smoothly.

“I remember James telling me that you were quite the Duelling Master in your younger years…?”

Harry listens to the unfolding conversation in silence as they make their way up to Dumbledore’s office, slightly curious but mostly lost; every other word seems to go over his head, though it’s clear that Professor Flitwick is greatly enjoying the discussion and Uncle Salazar’s lips have curled upwards in a small, genuine smile.

“I’m not as spry as I used to be, but perhaps someday we should duel,” Professor Flitwick suggests finally, slowing to a halt outside a large statue of a griffin, and Uncle Salazar inclines his head in wordless agreement. “Haribo.”

The griffin leaps aside, revealing a spiral staircase ascending further than Harry can see from out in the corridor, and as much as Harry isn’t looking forward to the meeting, he has to admit that the entrance to the Headmaster’s Office is fairly nice.

“A duel with a legend such as yourself would be an honour,” Uncle Salazar responds as he settles a hand on Harry’s shoulder, guiding him towards the staircase. “Though perhaps it would be best left for the summer.”

“Of course,” Professor Flitwick agrees, shooting Harry a reassuring smile before turning to start back down the corridor.

With a sigh, Uncle Salazar glances up towards their destination, then back down towards Harry, who finds himself suddenly reminded of who, exactly, they’re about to be facing up there.

“Shall we?”

With a slightly shaky nod, Harry steps aside in a silent request for his uncle to lead the way, relieved when the man obliges without comment. He doesn’t want to be the first to enter Dumbledore’s office, or even to knock on the old goat’s door; he can’t deny that Dumbledore unnerves him at best and terrifies him at worst but, luckily, Uncle Salazar seems to understand Harry’s misgivings without any need for him to admit them aloud, letting Harry stay behind his uncle up until the moment all greetings have been conducted and they are required to sit for the sake of manners. Then, Uncle Salazar nudges his armchair – of all the seats Dumbledore could have conjured – subtly closer to the Headmaster than Harry’s and a little bit to the right of its original position, so that it is more in Dumbledore’s line of sight than Harry’s and so that he can sit a little closer to Harry himself.

“What is this urgent business, then, Lord Dumbledore?” Uncle Salazar asks finally, lowering himself into his own seat, seemingly unbothered by the way Dumbledore examines him.

Harry watches his uncle from the corner of his eye for a moment, then drops his eyes to the floor and simply listens in silence.

“I find myself concerned for young Harry’s –”

“That would be Heir Potter, Lord Dumbledore,” Uncle Salazar cuts in, the reprimand apparently mild but clearly, if the tension in the room is anything to go by, anything but. “Neither myself nor my nephew have offered you use of his first name.”

For a moment, Dumbledore is silent, and Harry waits for some kind of argument, but then one of the portraits coughs pointedly, to his surprise, and Dumbledore moves on without comment.

“I find myself concerned for Heir Potter’s well-being,” the old man declares. “He has experienced some rather traumatic events over his time at Hogwarts so far – indeed, he seems to have sought such trouble out – and on considering this, I felt it prudent to check in as soon as possible.”

_Can he really be serious about this?_

“And although it has been two months since the last incident, you felt this so urgent as to pull me from a meeting with the Minister himself?” Uncle Salazar asks pointedly.

Quietly surprised, Harry shifts briefly to look at his uncle, but catches only a glimpse of a blank face, which he supposes he should have expected, given their company. Uncle Salazar will not want to give anything away to Dumbledore besides what he can control, and Harry should strive for the same. Still, the Minister at _this_ time of night?

It seems to Harry a good sign of the influence that Uncle Salazar is gathering within the Ministry, at least, to be meeting at odd times in the day; it’s less formal, if nothing else, and Uncle Salazar didn’t seem to find it too difficult to stand the Minister up, either.

“A meeting with the Minister?” Dumbledore echoes, and there is so much loaded into those five words that Harry cannot even begin to decipher, but Uncle Salazar does not so much as twitch.

“Yes,” he returns. “Now, did you only wish to express your concern as soon as possible, or were there actions you wished to take?”

“Ah, I merely hoped to ensure that all are on the same page,” Dumbledore tells him, back to the jovial façade for a second before his tone takes on a slightly more serious note, “And to check that his penchant for trouble is not at all influenced by his homelife.”

“Ah,” Uncle Salazar says; Harry barely repressed a shiver at the ice within his amusement. “So this _is_ what I thought it was. I was wondering if we’d simply dance around the issue this entire time.”

“What issue would that be?” Dumbledore asks lightly, Uncle Salazar letting out a soft chuckle.

“You are hoping to get the measure of me,” he replies bluntly. “You wish to assess how much of a threat I am – how much power I have, whether I am likely to use that power in a manner you would consider dangerous. You also hope to gain knowledge of where I have been and what has happened over that time. Fortunately for you, I am quite happy to discuss that, but I’d rather not do so with Harry in the room. He does not find your presence particularly comfortable.”

“Does he not?”

Uncle Salazar looks to Harry, who takes the cue to speak with no small level of obvious reluctance.

“No, Sir,” he allows, then cannot resist adding, “You left me to die on a doorstep and squandered away my family’s estate, Sir.”

The side of Uncle Salazar’s face that is hidden from Dumbledore twists briefly with wry amusement.

“Go back to your friends, Harry,” his uncle tells him softly. “It’s about time you got to bed, anyway.”

Relieved, Harry nods and stands, leaning over to hug Uncle Salazar tightly and only releasing after he has received a gentle pat to the back, a silent assurance from Uncle Salazar that all will be well. Without hesitation, he heads for the door, throwing his words over his shoulder as he goes.

“Goodnight, Uncle Salazar.”

“Oidhche mhath, Harry,” Uncle Salazar returns, just before the door clicks shut.

When he gets back to the Ravenclaw common room, he finds his housemates waiting for him, Mandy and Lisa’s Chess game apparently set aside for the night; distantly, Harry wonders how much longer it will go on for, because it has been several nights already, but it’s only just starting to look as though they’re getting somewhere and, at this rate, he honestly thinks that they’ll not only break their previous record, but double it.

“What did Professor Dumbledore want, then?” Sue asks curiously as he drops down into a nearby armchair with a sigh.

“Bullshit excuse to talk to my uncle,” Harry admits, shrugging. “What I expected, really.”

“Oh.” Sue blinks, apparently taken aback. “Is… How is your uncle these days? Didn’t he lose someone last year or something? No – he was mourning them?”

“Yeah, he lost them a few years back,” Harry confirms with a nod, and is surprised to find that he doesn’t feel instantly miserable at the thought. “He’s… He’s actually doing quite well. I think he’s committed to living life – it’s what his boyfriend would have wanted, really.”

Truthfully, Harry has no idea what was said between Uncle Salazar and the strange spirit of Godric Gryffindor down in the Chamber of Secrets all those weeks ago, but he guesses it was something of the being healthy and happy sort, because Uncle Salazar has gradually been getting better and certainly looks a lot less gaunt than he did when he came to rescue them with Professor Snape. It hasn’t been an instant transformation, of course, but Harry is confident that his uncle will be fine in the long-run, which is far more than he could say two months ago.

“That’s good!” Lisa tells him, beaming. “I’m really glad to hear that. I’ve never met him, but my mum says he’s really nice.”

Harry has to blink at that.

“Your… mum?” he echoes uncertainly.

“Oh, yes,” Lisa confirms. “She’s spoken to him after Wizengamot sessions before. Apparently, he’s a very interesting man – and a _very_ skilled politician – but mysterious. She says he’s an unknown quantity.”

“My father says the same,” Padma agrees, casting Harry a slightly nervous look before adding, “They’re a little wary. No offence, Harry, but no one _really_ knows where he’s been the last however many years. Apparently, he isn’t even supposed to have a wand, but no can _prove_ he got it illegally.”

Harry shrugs, entirely unoffended. Uncle Salazar explains all the rumours and questions surrounding himself anyway, so Harry has heard all of it before, and since it doesn’t bother his uncle – it can be useful sometimes, in fact – it doesn’t much bother him.

“What _is_ the deal with him?” Sue asks curiously. “Everyone seemed surprised when he appeared last year – why…?”

“He disappeared for over a decade,” Terry tells her bluntly, “And not the ‘just quietly moved away’ kind of disappeared. It was a big thing. Really big. He had a magical accident, and _boom_ – vanished.”

He turns to Harry expectantly, clearly waiting for either a confirmation or correction, so Harry nods and sits up a little, sighing.

“He just _vanished_?” Sue gapes, eyes wide with shock and more than a little fright.

“It won’t ever happen to you,” Harry hears himself assure her, even as he tries to work out exactly what he can tell her and the rest of his housemates without risking revealing something. “Uncle Salazar has a magical disorder. He managed to invent a treatment for it when he came back, but… That’s why the accident happened in the first place.”

Sue’s mouth opens, then closes, and she nods, swallowing.

“Did you say he wasn’t allowed a wand?” Oliver asks uncertainly, glancing around at them all. “Why not?”

Everyone turns expectantly to Harry, apparently happy for him to answer now that they know that he’s willing to do so.

“He wasn’t allowed to go to Hogwarts to get his education,” Harry explains slowly, thoughts rushing even faster as he nears dangerous topics; how much does he dare say? “That was bullshit, though. No one else was ever barred from Hogwarts for similar reasons.”

“So…” Oliver hedges cautiously, gaze fixed firmly on Harry, “How did he, um… get one?”

Harry makes the sensible decision not to risk telling Oliver that Uncle Salazar made his wand – or won a second last year – and instead draws two fingers over his lips in a zipping motion, shrugging apologetically.

“…You know where he went as well, don’t you?” Padma asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed; Harry sees no harm in nodding. “But you’re not going to tell us.”

“No,” Harry confirms lightly. “That’s Uncle Salazar’s business – no offense, obviously.”

To his relief, his housemates simply nod in – admittedly disappointed – understanding, then, stifling a yawn, Michael glances up at the clock.

“We should get to bed,” the boy suggests, hopping down from the arm of Terry’s chair to stretch. “It’s getting quite late.”

Nodding his agreement, Harry stands and heads for the stairs on Michael’s heels, the rest of their fellow Ravenclaws following behind. The teachers have been piling more and more work onto them in the lead-up to their exams, and the last thing any of them need is to be struggling to stay awake because they decided to stay up chatting.

By the time Salazar Potter leaves, it’s past eleven and, frustratingly, Albus has barely any more answers than he had before. Admittedly, he has confirmed a few suspicions; the young Lord Potter certainly has quite the grudge against Albus as a result of his influence on the young man’s schooling but, overall, he seems to care for little besides the well-being of his nephew – which unfortunately has not elevated his opinion of Albus in the slightest. He also seems to be quite the politician, much to Albus’ disappointment. He would have hoped to see that, if nothing else, James’ twin could be a suitable influence on young Harry, but apparently Potter will have to be removed sometime soon to avoid any irreversible damage.

That, or brought firmly to heel. There are many potential avenues that Albus can see to go down that will weaken Potter’s position, and perhaps the first would be to have him prosecuted for illegally procuring a wand, but there are too many holes in that idea – mostly that Albus cannot _prove_ that he bought the wand at all. Damn Ministry regulations and all their little loopholes. The next, of course, would be to explore this apparent relationship with Minister Fudge. It wouldn’t do for the Minister’s wife to find out, after all, and as much as the Minister’s extra-marital affairs are largely common knowledge in the upper levels of society, the wider public would not be impressed. Unfortunately, Albus cannot risk his name being connected to anything underhanded like that if he wants to maintain any semblance of a cordial relationship with Minister Fudge himself.

Then again, Albus considers, he has distinct memories of Lily Potter’s brother-in-law, Vernon Dursley, and his firm stance as a Christian; last he knew, Potter still occupied that same residence. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to pay a visit to young Harry’s muggle relatives and ensure that they know exactly what Potter gets up to in his spare time. Of course, he’ll have to do so at a time when Potter himself is otherwise occupied, so perhaps he will have to skip a Wizengamot session in order to do so. Next weekend will work just fine, he thinks.

For now, however, there is much more to do. Lord Slytherin’s letter still lies on his desk, received only this morning with confirmation that the man will meet with him next Wednesday, and Albus has much to do in preparation. He needs a plan of attack and, from what little he has seen of this political newcomer, he doubts that his usual genial mask will go down particularly well. No, he will have to be somewhat more honest with Lord Slytherin, but not so honest as to cause offense through bluntness; he knows what that type can be like, with their delicate wordplays and propensity to beat around the bush instead of saying what they mean. It has, in all honesty, been a while since Albus has been able to dance around in such ways, and he finds that he can’t deny that he’s looking forward to it.

Beyond that, he will need to work out where his priorities lie. It is most important, of course, to determine the man’s political aims and display himself as a more suitable ally than the likes of Lucius Malfoy but, if he can, there are many other areas that Albus would like to investigate. For one, it would be interesting to know if Lord Slytherin might have any knowledge on wandlore that could further Albus’ investigations into the Deathly Hallows, what with the legend of Salazar Slytherin’s self-made wand…

Frozen, Albus stares blankly at the wall ahead. He must be mistaken. What he saw could not possibly have been correct. He must have misremembered, or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

_All the same_ , he decides, _it would do no harm to check._

Standing, he crosses to his bookshelf and pulls forth the book that he knows will have the information he needs; better to check this first than to move straight to that which is not so easily verifiable.

To his mild alarm, the book only serves to confirm what he was already reasonably sure of, and so it is that, with his heart pounding ever so slightly within his ribcage, he crosses to his pensieve and lifts his wand to his temple. Surely, he cannot be correct about this; the implications would be potentially disastrous.

Five minutes later, Albus emerges from his pensieve and stumbles straight to his armchair to lower himself shakily into it, eyes wide as his mind races through what he has just seen. Salazar Potter is in possession of the wand of Salazar Slytherin, thought long since lost to the world. This can surely only mean one thing, can it not?

Salazar Potter is Lord Slytherin. The only problem is _how_? Is Lord Slytherin simply impersonating Salazar Potter as a means of getting closer to Harry, or has Salazar Potter himself somehow taken up the title? Could that be connected to his fourteen-year absence? Either way, the things Albus could bring about by pointing out that they share the same wand –

But he can’t say that for certain. He has never – not _once_ – seen Lord Slytherin’s wand. All magic that the man has performed has been wandless, Albus realises faintly, and with that, his series of realisations comes toppling down. Likely, he thinks, Potter simply stumbled across the wand during those mysterious fourteen years, and perhaps he does not even know whose wand it once was.

Relaxing, Albus slumps back into his armchair and lifts a hand to nurse his forehead gently, sighing as he does so. He has so much to do – at the top of his list, ensuring that Harry Potter’s negative view of him is corrected once and for all – but right now, he thinks it would be best to sleep. It will do him no good to be trying to solve his problems while sleep-deprived. Certainly, he has spent too much time rushing into assumptions regarding Lord Slytherin’s identity of late; the last thing he needs is to go into their meeting next week thinking that he knows more about the man than he does.

Vernon is just finishing his dinner when the knock comes. Sharing a confused frown with Petunia, he sets his cutlery reluctantly down and stands, heading for the front door only to open it on the most flamboyantly dressed old man he’s ever seen, though something about him seems strangely familiar. Perhaps most important, however, is that he’s clearly a wizard.

“I’m sorry,” he tells the stranger. “Lord Potter isn’t here at the moment.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright,” the stranger assures him. “I was actually hoping to talk to you, Mr Dursley.”

Slightly alarmed by the fact that this man appears to know his name – never mind wants to talk to him – Vernon struggles for a response, but can find nothing to say. There’s no harm in hearing the man out, he supposes, so with a sigh, he steps aside and invites his strange guest in.

“If you could make it quick, we were in the middle of dinner,” he manages gruffly as he closes the door, relieved when he receives a cheery nod of confirmation; he isn’t normally so impolite, but something about this stranger unsettles him somewhat.

“Of course, of course,” the man agrees, a twinkle in his eye when he meets Vernon’s gaze. “It’s merely that… Well, I recently stumbled across some information about Lord Potter which I thought you might wish to know.”

Suspicious, Vernon offers only a jerky nod and waits, arms folded. He doesn’t plan to invite an unknown man any further into house than entirely necessary.

“You see, I met with him the other day, and in making small talk, he mentioned having come from… well, a _tryst_ , I suppose you might call it, with the Minister. It seemed to be something of a regular occurrence.”

Vernon’s moustache twitches in faint anger, but he pushes down his disgust, unwilling to make it so obvious that the stranger’s words have affected him. There will be some kind of hidden motivation in this man coming here to tell him this, and he doesn’t plan to bow to it.

“We all already know he’s gay,” he grits out, and the man’s smile grows, the twinkle in his eye with it.

“And you tolerate it?” comes the calm response. “How… liberal of you. But no, that wasn’t what had me rushing to find a way to contact you; what a man does in his own time is his business. It was only the fact that young Harry happened to be present that alarmed me. I didn’t think it was a particularly appropriate subject to discuss in front of a child – and Harry did not seem entirely surprised.”

_That utter bastard._

Vernon can feel his ire swelling, his hands clenching into fists, and it takes all of his self-control not to curse aloud right there and then. He does not dare open his mouth to offer a verbal response, not trusting himself to hold back the profanities that might spew forth, instead jerking his head in a stiff nod of gratitude, relieved when the stranger only echoes the gesture kindly and turns back towards the door.

As soon as their unusual visitor is gone, Vernon storms back through to the kitchen, all but shaking with ire as his face flushes hot, his nails digging into his calloused palms.

“Vernon?” Petunia asks, visibly alarmed. “What –?”

“ _Salazar_!” he spits. “That little faggot – planting his ideas of sinning into Harry’s head!”

Vernon will make sure that he regrets ever mentioning the idea to Harry. The bastard will rue the day he first decided to corrupt Vernon’s nephew so horrifically.

Quickly, Vernon recounts everything he’s just been told to his wife, watching her face drop in shock and horror, paling to white in seconds. Petunia, he knows, has more of a live-and-let-live attitude when it comes to Salazar’s lifestyle, but this is too far even for her. Salazar has crossed a line by attempting to bring Harry into his sinful ways.

While he waits in the kitchen for Salazar to return from his political affairs, Vernon’s anger only grows, fury seeming to bubble beneath his skin as he bristles at the thought of his nephew being corrupted by Salazar’s wickedness. All he can hope is that the damage done isn’t irreversible, but if it is…

He will make sure that Salazar pays for what he’s done.

The crack of apparition outside has him standing at once, storming to the front door to wrench it open and lunge for the bastard – who isn’t even facing him, but Vernon doesn’t care. With the element of surprise and far greater body mass, it’s easy to shove the other man to the floor and pin him down by his throat, throwing all of his strength into a solid punch alongside his rage and fear for Harry. Salazar has dared to corrupt one of his boys – possibly both, for all he knows – and he will _not_ tolerate it. His fist comes down again and again, fuelled by the sheer depth of fury and terror that has welled inside him at the thought of Harry hearing about such horrific things and possibly one day internalising those ideas himself. He will not have Salazar turning Harry into someone like him.

Too caught up in his anger, Vernon doesn’t register the shift in the body beneath him until it’s too late; with a strength that Vernon could never have imagined Salazar possessing, he finds himself flipped onto his back, Salazar straddling his chest with the tip of a wand pressed beneath his chin. Salazar stares down with cold, dark eyes as purple and red blooms across his features, twisting briefly to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood before turning back to Vernon with a sneer.

“Give me one reason, Dursley,” he hisses. “ _One_ reason. You think Harry will care what I do to you when he sees what you’ve done to me?”

Vernon stares up into those almost inhuman eyes and tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. He has always known that Salazar could be dangerous. He has worried over what the man could do to his boys – over the influence Salazar could have on them, or even worse – but not once has it occurred to him to fear for himself. Now, with the very air around Salazar seeming to crackle with ice, frost creeping down his wand towards Vernon’s exposed throat, he can’t help but wish that despite his anger, he’d remembered the power imbalance created by Salazar’s magic.

Suddenly, however, Salazar stiffens, head jerking up as he inhales sharply.

“Here’s a reason,” Petunia tells him darkly, her own wand jabbed into the back of his neck as her free hand closes, white-knuckled, around his shoulder. “If you dare hurt my husband…”

“You think that you could ever be a match for me?” Salazar asks her, coldly amused. “I could be done with the both of you in a matter of minutes.”

“And then off to Azkaban!” Petunia hisses, jabbing her wand into his neck; Vernon watches him jolt slightly as sparks fly from the end and catches his pained grimace, satisfaction growing at the small expression of discomfort. “You’d be away in a heartbeat for attacking Vernon, no matter what your little _friends_ try – never mind me as well.”

Salazar says nothing, merely staring off into the distance as his chest rises and falls slowly, apparently unwilling to acknowledge what Vernon can only assume is a very good point from his wife.

“Stand up!” Petunia snaps, startling Vernon slightly, and for the first time, he looks up to examine his wife’s face, taking in the mix of worry and anger in the glare that she fixes on Salazar.

Still silent, Salazar stands, and when Petunia pushes him towards the house, he doesn’t fight, merely letting himself be manhandled inside and then through to the kitchen. Vernon picks himself gingerly off the ground, nodding in acknowledgement of Petunia’s incredulous stare, and follows his wife inside as he tries to avoid thinking about what Salazar might have done to him without Petunia’s interference. In future, no matter how worried he is about his boys, he will have to be more careful.

“Sit!”

Slowly, Salazar sits. In the light of the kitchen, his bruises look even better than they did outside, Vernon observes triumphantly, his face a mash of darkness, swelling and split skin. He looks dazed, too, to the point that Vernon suspects that he is suffering from a concussion. Now is not the time to be celebrating that, however; Harry’s well-being is potentially at risk, here.

“What have you told Harry about your _habits_?” he demands, ire tempered only slightly by seeing the damage that he has caused to Salazar’s face.

Salazar’s slow blink has his frustration growing once more.

“…I’m sorry?” he asks, playing clueless.

“You told him about – about _that_ stuff!” Vernon grits out, furious. “Everything you were meant to keep hidden from him!”

Carefully, Salazar sets his wand down and raises his hands, lips tugging upwards into an almost incredulous smile.

“I’ve done no such thing,” he returns steadily. “I have not _once_ broached the subject with him – whether or not his friends have mentioned anything…”

“And that’s why he knows about your little _fling_ with the Minister, is it?” Petunia throws back, lips pursed to the point of whiteness, and she seems no more prepared for the alarm that flashes across Salazar’s face than Vernon.

“Harry knows about that?” the adult Potter demands, apparently horrified. “I’ve been careful not to give anything of the sort away to him. I would _never_ … How do _you_ know about it?”

Already caught off-guard by Salazar’s reaction and further surprised by the sudden change of topic, Vernon finds himself answering automatically.

“Some old man came by earlier to tell us,” he explains. “He said he’d met with you the other day and you mentioned it in front of Harry. He said Harry didn’t seem shocked at all.”

Salazar’s eyes slip closed.

“Dumbledore…” he sighs, lifting a hand to scrub at his eyes then wincing as soon as he touches his face, dropping the appendage once more. “What could I have said to him…? I said I’d had a meeting with the Minister. Nothing more, nothing less. His affairs are an open secret among those in the know, so I imagine Dumbledore inferred it, but Harry would not have seen it as anything other than entirely innocent.”

_Well._ Perhaps Vernon was just a little hasty in his actions earlier, though he won’t deny that it felt good to finally land a punch or two – or ten – on the smug face of the bastard sitting before him. He simply would rather not have done so on the whim of the man who almost killed his nephew.

“Why would Dumbledore try to mislead us like that?” Petunia presses, which is certainly a good question, and not one that Vernon can say he thought of himself.

Sighing, Salazar leans back in his chair to cross one leg over the other, one shoulder lifting delicately.

“I would imagine he hoped to weaken my position somewhat – possibly in preparation to try something of greater effect later on. If he sees me as a threat, then he would most likely wish to remove me or, failing that, separate me from my power.”

When he reaches into his pocket, Vernon tenses automatically, but he merely draws forth his two-way mirror to examine his face, settling his palm against his cheek and closing his eyes after a second. Vernon watches the bruises melt away, remembering only belatedly that Salazar is more than capable of magic without a stick in his hand; setting his wand down may have given the impression of reducing his threat level but, undoubtedly, he’s still in a position to take them both down in a second if he wishes to, or whatever his previous threat was.

Vernon will have to be very careful from now on.

“So Harry doesn’t know about any of this?” he checks to avoid dwelling on such ideas for too long, and doesn’t much like Salazar’s hesitation.

“He…” the younger man trails off. “He actually does happen to know that I am gay. He asked if that was the case, and I was not about to lie to him.”

Gritting his teeth, Vernon can only try his best not to punch Salazar again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, because I have a feeling it may well come up - yes, I do know that Dumbledore is gay; no, that does conflict with anything that has happened in this chapter. If you want more of an explanation, do feel free to ask, of course!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning all! I present to you the last chapter of Harry Potter and the Hogwarts Defence System! I'll warn you now that it is of comparatively... _light_ tone given the chapters that have gone before it.

It’s best, Harry decides after his meeting with Dumbledore, to keep his head down for the rest of the Summer Term, to avoid giving the old goat any other reason to talk to him. Once was bad enough; he doesn’t plan on it happening again if he can really help it, especially given that he isn’t sure that he could resist the urge to punch the Headmaster in the face after hearing what he did to Uncle Salazar. His uncle hasn’t told him _exactly_ what the fallout was between himself and Uncle Vernon after Dumbledore’s visit, only that Uncle Vernon hadn’t liked whatever Dumbledore revealed to him about Uncle Salazar’s sexuality, and now tensions are running high.

Harry’s not sure how he feels about Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon knowing that he’s aware of Uncle Salazar being gay, never mind how they’ll react to hearing that he, in turn, told Dudley, but for once, he doesn’t want to find out. He’d much rather stick to the story of Neville realising that there was a gap in his knowledge and filling it, allowing him to work out that Uncle Salazar is gay, than risk accidentally letting slip anything that might make the whole situation worse. At least Uncle Salazar has assured him that Potter Manor will be ready in about a year, which does, admittedly, feel like a very long way away, but at least it’s better than two years, right?

Harry just doesn’t know if he can bring himself to look Uncle Vernon in the eye in the meantime, having been reminded yet again of the man’s prejudice.

Still, there are more pressing issues to consider before he gets home, Harry thinks as he scans through Uncle Salazar’s latest letter, which details his uncle’s meeting with Dumbledore as Lord Slytherin. Mostly, it appears to have been exactly what was advertised – a negotiation revolving around various changes that could be made to the school, which included improving the teaching of History of Magic, better measures to encourage unity between all houses without the villainization of Slytherins, the return of the Duelling Club with a more proficient lead and even more forms of exercise to offer to students – but apparently, Dumbledore also showed a distinct interest in wandlore, particularly Uncle Salazar’s famous wand.

_He asked if I was aware that Lord Potter is currently in possession of my ancestor’s wand_ , his uncle has written. _He seemed quite surprised that I did not mind, though he accepted my explanation that I have no reason to begrudge its use by a man for whom it seems to work well. He did, however, seem rather disturbed to hear that I do not regularly use a wand, and only occasionally turn to one when I require one in battle._

It’s a little strange to read Uncle Salazar referring to himself in varying degrees of third person, Harry supposes, though he understands well enough why; his uncle, Salazar Potter, can hardly claim to have knowledge of a private meeting between the Light Lord and Lord Slytherin, and so the letter is not addressed to Harry, nor signed by Uncle Salazar, to reduce the risk of any connections being made in the unlikely event that the letter might be intercepted. Harry has never denied that Uncle Salazar can be rather paranoid at times, but he supposes it pays to be wary, and the subterfuge does make it all a little more exciting.

Finally, Uncle Salazar’s letter rounds off with a summary of what little he revealed to Dumbledore about his motives and current connections and a reminder to burn the letter, which has Harry standing from his cushion with a small huff as Terry slips immediately into the now vacant pre-warmed seat and crossing the room to drop the letter into the fireplace before turning back to pout jokingly.

“Fine,” he tells his year-mates when he gets close enough for them to hear him over the general chatter without disturbing others’ conversations. “I’ll just go…”

“Aw, Harry…” Michael starts immediately, mirroring Harry’s pout. “No need for that… Ignore Terry, he’s just a dickhead.”

That gets several of the others giggling, Harry biting back a laugh of his own at the insult in an effort to keep up his sad expression.

“Come and sit here instead,” Michael adds, patting his own lap with a grin, and Harry decides to call his bluff.

“Fine,” he announces, marching past his old seat, now occupied by Terry, to drop as forcefully as he can onto Michael’s thighs.

“ _Merlin_!” Michael yelps, to another round of laughter. “You’re heavier than you look, mate.”

“Hidden muscle,” Harry declares with a grin, shifting to get himself comfortable. “You’re _bonier_ than you look.”

“Serves you right for squashing me,” Michael bites back, though the words hold no malice, only fond exasperation. “Did you seriously just throw a letter in the fire, by the way?”

Unwilling to admit that he did so to hide its contents, Harry scrambles quickly for another excuse, plucking out the other main subject of the letters that he has been receiving from his relatives lately to offer instead.

“My aunt and uncle on my mum’s side – Dudley’s parents – aren’t being very tolerant of Uncle Salazar being gay at the moment,” he explains. “I’m just getting fed up of reading their excuses for treating him so badly.”

Admittedly, the subject has not come up once in Harry’s correspondence with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon – perhaps because Harry has been avoiding writing to them in the first place, but nonetheless. If nothing else, it’s the sort of conversation that Harry expects to be suffering through when he gets home in the summer, possibly several times over.

“Oh, that’s…” Lisa trails off, apparently lost for words. “That’s _horrible_.”

This, of course, sparks a very long explanation for their muggleborn housemates about sexuality in Magical Britain – and gender, too, when Sue starts to get confused about why they’re all using such ‘vague’ terminology. Harry mostly lets Lisa and Padma do the talking, sitting back to listen to their explanations in case he hears anything that he doesn’t yet know; Uncle Salazar might have worked his way around Uncle Vernon’s demands that he not tell Harry about any of this, but unfortunately, he hasn’t had much of an opportunity to give a fuller explanation than the slightly awkward summary that Neville offered last year.

“You know, I remember being so confused when you brought this up when we were talking about your uncle losing his boyfriend,” Oliver admits finally, turning to address Harry. “It felt weird to ask then, and I guess I kind of forgot, but…”

Harry nods in silent understanding, knowing that he isn’t required to offer a verbal response to the other boy’s words. From there, the conversation moves on, Harry trying for some time to find a comfortable position in Michael’s lap, out of sheer spite and stubbornness, but eventually he has to concede that it’s rather painful and generally feels a bit _weird_ , so shifts up to perch on the arm of Michael’s chair instead. Of course, the sigh of relief that the action earns him from Michael has him tempted to return to his previous position, but he decides against it, if only for the sake of his aching behind – though to be fair, he doesn’t have long before he’s planning to get to bed to ensure that he doesn’t wake up aching and exhausted tomorrow. Uncle Salazar taught him early on that many rituals can be misleading in that the initial boost they provide hides physical weariness for a few hours, and Beltane, which they performed earlier today, is the worst of them all.

Just as he spends his free evenings and mealtimes with his housemates, his spare time during the day is spent with Hermione, Neville and Draco. Sometimes, they sit around Dudley’s bedside and chat; other times, they wander around the grounds of Hogwarts, Harry occasionally admitting to some of the inside knowledge that Uncle Salazar has bestowed on him over the years, or else settle in the library to revise for their end-of-year tests, which seem to be creeping up terribly quickly. Yes, they still have quite some time before the assessments themselves come around, but there’s no harm in being prepared, and certainly, none of them want to fall behind. Harry, for one, plans to bring both his Transfiguration and History of Magic grades up to ‘Outstanding’, and he’s not keen on hitting any ‘Acceptable’s this year, even in Astronomy.

“Did you ever tell your father about the diary?” Harry eventually finds himself asking Draco, one warm Saturday afternoon towards the end of May, the weekend after Harry and the rest of the Ravenclaw team secured the Quidditch House Cup with their victory over Gryffindor, and is unsure what to make of the way Draco shifts and looks away.

“Not… exactly,” the blond admits. “But he asked about it. Apparently, your uncle has been holding it over his head a bit.”

“Oh,” Harry manages awkwardly, unable to think of another response for several seconds. “Sorry about that.”

Shrugging almost carelessly, Draco sniffs.

“It’s politics – and _you_ need to be less apologetic about this sort of thing. Aren’t you taking on the Potter Lordship this summer?”

Neville turns a wide-eyed, incredulous stare on Harry, mouth dropping open as Harry fidgets uncomfortably.

“…Yes,” he admits reluctantly; he’d hoped to find a way to bring it up without making a big deal of it. “Uncle Salazar doesn’t really like having to front two Lordships, and he thinks I’m ready – with support, of course.”

“How, though?” Hermione frowns. “Surely he won’t emancipate you _just_ for that reason? It would be a scandal – especially since he can’t tell them about the other Lordship?”

“He’s using my apprenticeship as an excuse,” Harry explains, quickly setting his thoughts in order so that he can offer a clear elaboration. “I mean, not just that – I think he’s also planning to whip out a sob-story about how the title reminds him too much of my dad and all that… But it’s mostly going to be a case of presenting my apprenticeship as clear evidence that I’m mature enough, and that I’m in a good position to start bringing more to our family, so that no one can question his decision – though obviously that hinges on the apprenticeship actually going ahead.”

“Might it not?” Hermione asks at once, clearly concerned. “Has something happened?”

It’s a good point, Harry considers to himself; he should really sit down with Professor Snape at some point and clarify whether or not it _is_ going to be happening. Professor Snape hasn’t given him any indication that it won’t, and Harry certainly doesn’t have any reason to back out, but it would be best to gain some clarity and have a clear idea of the order of things, he thinks.

“No, Professor Snape just likes to make sure that anyone he considers is a good fit before committing,” Draco answers for him, Hermione relaxing with a slow nod. “From what I’ve heard, no one’s ever actually got past this stage, but Flint said it’s normally quite obvious at both ends, so if Harry thinks it’s going well, it likely is.”

Trying not to think too hard about _that_ particular comment, Harry merely nods and shrugs, resolving to keep the thought in the back of his head for the rest of the weekend and then bring it up on Monday evening. After all, it’s probably about time that he finds out whether he really will become Professor Snape’s apprentice, and if so, what will actually happen. There is, after all, only a certain degree of standardised procedure when it comes to the formation of a Master-Apprentice bond, with much left up to the prospective master to do as they choose.

The thing is, it has been over a year since the initial offer was made, and not once has Harry founds himself doubting his initial desire to grasp this opportunity with both hands. No matter how strict Professor Snape has been, no matter how high his standards, Harry’s respect for the man has only grown, along with his desire to learn everything he can from such an esteemed Potions Master. There’s something indescribably thrilling about being pushed to absolute perfection and _feeling_ his own progress as a result, and he doesn’t think that he could find anything better elsewhere.

All Harry can hope is that Professor Snape is just as favourable to the idea.

Within the cauldron, amaranthine liquid bubbles and hisses, spitting ever so slightly, but Harry pays the scalding droplets no mind as they soar through the fume-heavy air to sizzle at contact with the desk on which he works. His full focus is on the flames beneath the carefully-refined solution, slowly lowering the heat bit by bit until finally, the potion starts to darken that little bit more; as soon as he spots the colour start to shift, he tips in the moon dew, stirs twice anticlockwise, once clockwise, and twice more anticlockwise – the textbook says five clockwise stirs, for some stupid reason – then drops the heat altogether, casting a quick cooling charm and stepping back from the cauldron.

Slowly, Professor Snape stands from his desk, which he has been perched on as usual to watch Harry work, and approaches to examine the potion. Harry waits anxiously, fingers twisting before himself, for the Potions Master’s verdict, and when Professor Snape nods his approval, a beam splits his face instantly.

“Well done, Harry,” Professor Snape tells him calmly, unbothered by Harry’s glee. “You’ve worked hard. It is more than acceptable.”

This is the first time that Harry has managed to brew a potion independently without having to repeat it at least once – the first time a potion has taken the absolute minimum of three sessions, in fact, because Harry has managed to fit ingredient collection and preparation into the same time as brewing it today – and he could not be prouder of the Sleeping Draught now sitting peacefully within his cauldron.

“Bottle it up, then,” Professor Snape tells him; Harry does so carefully, setting each and every vial to the side under standard-procedure stasis charms, which earns him another nod. “If you would like, I will take one of these to show your uncle. I imagine that he’ll be most impressed.”

Harry hadn’t thought that he could light up any further, but here he is, proving himself wrong. Uncle Salazar is a more than accomplished Potions Master himself – if not exactly known for it under his modern name – and for Professor Snape to not only offer to show him Harry’s potion, but suggest that he’d be impressed, is almost as high praise as Professor Snape’s earlier words.

This is, he decides, the best time to bring up questions surrounding the apprenticeship – while he can easily summon the nerve.

“Sir,” he starts carefully, still grinning from ear to ear despite how nerve-wracking this conversation will be, “About next year…”

Professor Snape arches one eyebrow expectantly, and Harry makes a mental note to ask the man to teach him such skills in non-verbal communication if the apprenticeship does go ahead. If nothing else, he’d get a good laugh out of his teacher’s reaction to the request in the first place.

“This is a trial period, right?” he asks. “So… Has it gone well?”

Professor Snape seems to examine him closely for several seconds.

“What do you think, Harry?” comes the soft response, and Harry blinks in surprise, even as he deflates a little with the realisation that he isn’t going to get a straight, easier answer.

“I think it’s gone well,” he answers all the same, because if Professor Snape wants his honest opinion, then there’s certainly no sense in not giving it; if Professor Snape can put himself out there by offering the apprenticeship, then Harry can do the same by making his eagerness to take the opportunity clear. “I’m certain that this is the route I want to go down, and I’ve really enjoyed learning from you in particular. I’d like to go ahead with the apprenticeship.”

Slowly, Professor Snape nods, eyes not leaving Harry’s for one second as he seems to search Harry’s soul.

“There was another student, a few years ago,” he begins carefully after a long moment, finally turning away to settle back down on his desk before meeting Harry’s gaze once more, “Who I offered this opportunity to, and went through the same trial period as I have with you. When I asked her that question, she was not comfortable enough to give me a straight answer, and that was when I knew that an apprenticeship would not work out. If she did not trust me enough to tell me she wanted the apprenticeship after a year of working closely, then it would not work, and I stand by that decision.”

“So…” Harry hedges, “Is that a ‘yes’?”

Professor Snape’s lips twitch.

“Yes, Harry, that is a ‘yes’,” his Potions professor – and soon to be master – tells him amusedly. “We will carry out the formation of the Master-Apprentice bond in the summer, shortly after your birthday; I will arrange that with your uncle, but after you become my apprentice, I will communicate directly with you rather than with him, understand?”

Harry nods eagerly, trying not to bounce too vigorously.

“After Salazar has emancipated you, have him teach you the basics of wandless and non-verbal magic; I would do it myself, but I imagine that I’ll be rather busy this summer, and his expertise is certainly of a higher level than mine, so I have no qualms when it comes to delegating that task to him.”

Biting back a small laugh, Harry tries to imagine Uncle Salazar allowing anyone to _delegate_ tasks to him, and has to admit that, if anyone could manage it, Professor Snape would be that one.

“Yes, Sir,” is all he responds with aloud.

“In the autumn,” Professor Snape continues, though not without a raised eyebrow in response to Harry’s quiet amusement, “We will commence study of the Mind Arts, and although we will continue to brew potions, this will take a backseat until I am satisfied that you have mastered Occlumency to an acceptable level. Then, we will largely return our focus to potion-making, though I will continue to teach and train you to use Occlumency both to defend your mind and to better structure it, allowing you to apply it to other branches of magic.”

Nodding again, Harry starts to clean his equipment – doing so earns him yet another approving nod, to his delight – while he listens to Professor Snape’s calm outlining of the coming months.

“We will sit down together and discuss a full set of expectations for one another as master and apprentice in September, and over that month, our schedule will be flexible while we work out how best to balance it with your increased workload. For the rest of this academic year, however, we will continue as we have been; we are currently on track to have completed every potion in the second year syllabus by the end of June, and from then on, we will be starting potions which I consider most suitable for you to learn, though you will always have studied a potion with me before we explore it in class. Therefore, I expect to see you using your previous experience to assist your classmates, understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry repeats eagerly, more than capable of seeing the logic behind that; beyond helping his classmates to improve their understanding and ability in Potions, it will also solidify his own knowledge of particular brews and allow him to spend more time examining the flaws in various textbook recipes and what their effects might be.

“Good,” Professor Snape nods, then checks the time with a quick flick of his wand. “Finish cleaning and packing away your equipment, and I will see you on Wednesday. And start leaving your cauldron down here. There’s no point to you carrying it up and down every other evening as well as for classes, and I’d rather you get into the habit now, before we start brewing potions that will take longer than one day.”

As seemingly usual, Harry skips all the way back to Ravenclaw Tower and prances up the spiral staircase absolutely ecstatic and unable to wait to tell his friends tomorrow – or Uncle Salazar tonight.

From that moment on, everything seems rather rosy. There is no more tension within the year now that Ron Weasley has come into the fold; although he still insists that his mother would not be happy with him if he were to join in with their rituals, his class performance seems to have picked up slightly since he joined their study group, and Harry is delighted to see him raise his hand to answer a question in Transfiguration once, which seemed to stun Professor McGonagall as much as the rest of the class. Harry presses on with his learning and revision, thoughts of the apprenticeship echoing in the back of his mind all the while, and is happy to realise that he feels far more confident in his Astronomy knowledge than he did even a month ago, after spending one Sunday afternoon with Padma’s twin Parvati and her apparently inseparable friend Lavender, letting them talk him through the course content and bombarding them with questions which they answered with relative ease.

Admittedly, Lockhart is as annoying as ever – until, towards the end of June, two vaguely familiar identical redheads wander over to Harry and his friends in the library to greet them formally with only the slightest hint of uncertainty over the correct etiquette, which they manage to gloss over quite impressively through sheer confidence.

“We wanted to thank you –” starts one, who Harry is fairly sure introduced himself as Fred Weasley, when all handshakes have been completed.

“– for saving our ickle Ronniekins,” the other – George, Harry believes – continues. “Our mother is quite –”

“– grateful to you all,” Fred tells them, as Harry tries to ignore the feeling that he’s watching some kind of fast-paced tennis match, like the ones Uncle Vernon once took them to in south-west London. “But that’s not why we’re here. We think that you –”

“– have been having a particularly hard time with our –”

“– esteemed Defence professor, from what our brother has told us. So we wanted to invite you ickle Second-Years –”

“– to join us in a valiant crusade to ignore him altogether for the rest of the term –”

“– by instead getting on with far more useful work in his lessons and pretending that he is entirely invisible.”

“We can’t see _or_ hear him.”

Harry frowns, a little confused.

“Surely that would work better if you got the whole school involved?” he asks slowly, watching the older boys share a look.

“Well, yes,” one admits.

“But we can hardly ask the _whole_ _school_ –”

“Leave that to us,” Harry assures them firmly, a grin starting to spread across his face at the prospect of a school-wide practical joke on the most irritating teacher in the year. “I mean, we can probably only manage the first and third years as well as our own, but…”

“We can do the other four,” Ron’s brothers tell him at once, identical evil grins spreading over their faces.

“Say we start on 1st July?” Draco offers cautiously, piping up for the first time to the surprise of the twins. “Then the fifth and seventh years will be more likely to agree because their exams will be over, and it’s a nice simple date for us all to agree on.”

“A snake, Forge!” one of the brothers exclaims. “There’s a snake speaking to us!”

“I think we might be Parselmouths, Gred,” the other returns. “Does that mean we’re evil now?”

“Have we _always_ been evil?”

“Who knows? How can we know anything? Are we even _real_?”

“Is _anything_?”

“You know _I_ ’m a Parselmouth, right?” Harry interrupts, a little impatient, though of course they wouldn’t have known. “I’m not evil. As far as you know. Maybe I just defeated You-Know-Who to overthrow him, and this is all part of my evil plot to take over this potentially non-existent world.”

As Hermione stifles a laugh beside him, the two redheads blink at him – Harry has to admit, that he’s impressed with the sheer level of synchronisation in such a simple action – then share a glance loaded with more hidden meaning than Harry could ever hope to decipher even with years of study.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, oh brother mine?”

“That we’re adopting this one and dragging him into taking our pranks to a whole new level?”

“Oh, _yes_ …”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Harry asks dubiously, although he has to admit that it sounds like an excellent prospect; he’s barely had any chances to pull pranks this year, because at the start, he was still settling in, then the voice came along, and since Dudley was petrified, it just hasn’t felt right. “You don’t do any malicious pranks, do you?”

“Of course not,” they assure him instantly. “We’re careful about that – bad for our future reputation if we do that.”

“Reputation?” Hermione echoes curiously, before Harry can ask himself, and the two share another look before pulling out chairs to drop into.

“We want to start a business,” one of them explains seriously. “A joke shop. Mum wants us to get boring old jobs in the Ministry, but if we can just find a way to kickstart it, we’ve already got so many ideas. I mean, we don’t _really_ have the magical knowledge to know if all of it’s feasible, never mind the skill to carry it out, but we’ve been researching a lot, and we’re getting there. One day, we want to rival Zonko’s.”

It’s the most that either of them has said without the other jumping in, and Harry has to admit that he’s impressed by that alone, never mind their clear ambition.

“So in a few years, maybe…” Draco starts slowly, eyes narrowed as he considers them, “You might be ready to start this business up? If you had the financial means?”

Yet again, the two glance at one another.

“Yes,” confirms the one who didn’t explain their ambition. “That’s the plan.”

Harry waits for Draco to elaborate, but his blond friend only nods, something unspoken seeming to pass between him and the twins.

“Maybe we should talk more about that in a year or two. For now… Why don’t you mentor _all_ of us? You could make us your protégés – including Harry’s cousin, when he wakes up. Then you’ll have reach in every house, experienced pranksters in the form of Harry and Dudley, Slytherin cunning from me and Hermione, more resources from me, Neville’s ability to never be accused of _anything_ , and Harry’s abilities as a Parselmouth. Think of what you could do with _that_.”

Surprised by the sales-pitch, Harry twists to blink at Draco, but cannot for the life of him work out what Draco’s plan is with this. The blond seems to be getting increasingly fond of coming up with little ideas on the spot and just running with them, regardless of the bemusement it causes the rest of them.

“You strike a good deal,” one of the twins concedes. “It’d be good to leave a legacy behind. Tell you what… You don’t let us down with this Lockhart thing, and we’ll have a proper think about it.”

“What are you getting out of it, though?” the other asks suspiciously, their eyes narrowing as one.

Draco shrugs, Harry waiting curiously to hear his answer.

“I want to know how you never get caught,” the blond admits. “And there are rumours in Slytherin that you always know where everyone is. You’ll have to pass that knowledge onto us to work with us.”

_Alright, that right there is an_ excellent _reason._

“Ah…” the two murmur together, exchanging a particularly significant look before, for some reason, glancing at Harry.

“Alright. We’ll meet you here on 3rd July – that’s a Saturday – if you play your part in this Lockhart thing. We can discuss it then.”

So it is that Harry finds himself announcing the plan to the entire study group that Sunday and begging them to talk to every single First- and Third-Year that they know – and even the other years, if possible.

“This is our chance to get our own back,” he tells them all sincerely. “Lockhart’s been teaching us rubbish all year.”

“Yeah, but the other teachers…” Blaise Zabini sighs. “They could mess it up.”

Harry thinks on it for a moment, trying to work out if there’s any way that he could get the teachers to act as though there’s absolutely nothing wrong. He can’t ask them to join in, of course, but if they could just act completely oblivious to the whole thing and not dole out punishments for it…

“I’ve got an idea,” he promises.

With some _highly_ careful presentation of the plan as a harmless joke designed only to take revenge on an arrogant man who has messed up a year of their schooling, Professor Snape is on board and promising to deal with the rest of the teachers.

“They’ll be more receptive than you might think,” he tells Harry as they slice the finally-ready mandrakes, which confirms all of Harry’s suspicions regarding the inter-staff relationships at Hogwarts currently.

So it is that, on Thursday 1st July 1993, the student body of Hogwarts wakes up exactly as normal. They go about their usual business, dressing and wandering down for breakfast, ready to start the day. Harry is intercepted by the Weasley twins on the way into the Great Hall, finding himself on the receiving end of the same solid handshake as they seem to be giving to Harry’s closest friends as well.

“We’ve done our bit,” one of them murmurs discretely. “You helped a bit with that, actually. I take it you’ve done yours?”

Nodding, Harry offers them a conspiratorial grin and moves on to slide into a space next to Terry.

“And so it begins,” his housemates murmurs, flashing him a sly smile. “This is going to be good.”

And it really, really is.

Harry doesn’t have any lessons with Lockhart today, and for the first time in his life, the thought disappoints him – at least until he reaches lunch, and gets to witness the man’s nervous twitching, glances shot in all different directions. Several times, Harry catches sight of him trying to interact with various students, to no avail, though admittedly, it only seems to be through his own panic that he fails to notice the stifled laughter from those watching on.

Finally, midway through dinner, Lockhart breaks.

“CAN NONE OF YOU SEE ME?” he roars, shooting upwards from the table, his normally impeccable hair a terrible mess; Michael bites down hard on his sleeve, shoulders shaking silently. “CAN NONE OF YOU HEAR ME?”

“Dear Gilderoy, please do calm down,” Dumbledore soothes, playing along in brilliant style, and for the first time, Harry feels something other than anger and fear towards the old goat. “Shouting at students is not something we do here at Hogwarts.”

“Albus –” Lockhart starts, reaching for his goblet to gulp down the contents hastily and ignoring the spillages created by his trembling hand. “Albus, I don’t think – I don’t think they can _see_ me…”

“Nonsense, Gilderoy,” Professor McGonagall tuts. “Sit down, you’re creating a tremendous fuss.”

Behind Lockhart’s back, Professor Snape’s smirk is visible. Even the slightly strange lady who Harry has been assured is his future Divination professor seems to be smothering a laugh. Slowly, shakily, Lockhart sits, staring around at the hall with wide, panicked eyes.

He doesn’t emerge for classes the next day, and the day after that, Harry, Hermione, Draco and Neville secure their position – alongside the soon-to-be-woken Dudley – as the protégés of the Weasley twins next year. All in all, Harry thinks, it’s been a good few days – and they haven’t even hit the exams yet, which Harry is starting to look forward to with a strange sort of glee.

Just when Harry thought things couldn’t get better, Dudley surprises him by wandering into the Great Hall at dinner on Sunday, more than a little confused as he stares around at the sea of faces that he hasn’t seen since December. Harry wastes no time in springing up from his table and sprinting across the hall to launch himself at his cousin, laughing in sheer delight as he squeezes Dudley tightly.

“ _Harry_!” Dudley breathes, gripping him back just as securely. “They said you fought the monster – what the hell, Haz?”

“Bit more complicated than that,” Harry admits without letting go, ignoring the eyes on them and the other unpetrified students wandering in; he can say hi to Cho later. “I’ll tell you about it later. And you wouldn’t _believe_ what we did to Lockhart…”

Dudley, unsurprisingly, is exempt from all exams, but is happy to let the rest of them take turns teaching him all of the year’s content as revision, which doesn’t stop Harry from promising to run through all of it over the summer to make sure that Dudley really is okay with what he’s missed, because there’s no way he can learn it from their hurried run-throughs in the final minutes before their next assessment. The notes, apparently, are very helpful, which is something, Harry supposes.

Securing the House Cup for the second year running with a narrow victory over Slytherin is almost as good, Harry decides, as finding out that he has indeed met his target for his grades, with a minimum grade of EE in all of his subjects, and O’s in not just Potions, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration, but also Astronomy; apparently, he observes in delight, his hard work really has paid off. Both Parvati and Lavender receive a grateful hug for their help, of course.

Finally, after a dizzying whirlwind of a final few weeks, it’s time to head home. Harry spends the majority of the train journey slumped, exhausted, in the corner of their carriage as Hermione explains new Transfiguration principles to Dudley somewhere in his periphery, and when he gets onto the platform, he falls almost straight into Uncle Salazar’s thankfully waiting arms, slumping against his uncle’s chest as it buzzes with the man’s soft laughter.

Only when Harry catches sight of Dudley’s slightly hesitant stare does he remember that Dudley didn’t exactly take the news of Uncle Salazar being gay as well as he himself did, and that they never had a chance to resolve it.

“Dudley, your parents –” there’s a definite hint of a sneer in Uncle Salazar’s tone when he mentions Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, Harry notes, and certainly can’t blame him for it, “– have insisted on picking you up themselves; your mother is about two minutes away. However, I need to introduce Harry to someone, hence why I’m here myself. Will you be alright here by yourself, if I leave you to say goodbye to your friends, or would you prefer that I stay?”

Dudley hesitates, clearly mulling it over.

“You can go,” Harry’s cousin agrees eventually, stepping closer for a quick hug which Uncle Salazar accepts with a small smile before quickly detaching himself. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Dudley,” Uncle Salazar tells him softly, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Harry? I’d like to introduce you to someone I’ve been working closely with over the last year. He has been living in Potter Manor, and if you do not mind, I’d like him to stay there for the next while.”

“Alright,” Harry allows warily, taking the offered hand as he considers Uncle Salazar’s strangely cautious approach. “I’m not going to like him, am I?”

“The two of you have a somewhat rocky history,” Uncle Salazar admits, “Though I must tell you that he is not who you think he is.”

Uncle Salazar steps, twists, and the squeeze of apparition grips Harry’s ribcage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that HDS is at an end, a quick warning for you - I'm planning to take an extra week before posting the first chapter of Year Three. I'm off to uni in about a month, so I have a lot to sort out and, although I am about ten chapters in, I don't want to end up in a position where I am finishing chapters the week in which they are due to be posted further down the line.   
> Just the clarify, then: **Chapter One of Harry Potter and the Trial of the Wizengamot will be posted 12.09.2020 (12th of September for people with other date formats).**


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